


2/3 : making of the Winter Soldier

by theAsh0



Series: Joyride [6]
Category: Black Widow (Comics), Black Widow (Movie 2020), Captain America (Movies), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Child Abuse, Child Soldiers, Dark Past, Drama, Dubious Consent, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Manipulation, F/M, Homophobia, Hydra (Marvel), Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Minor Violence, Multi, Period-Typical Homophobia, Spies & Secret Agents, Whump, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-16
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:22:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 27
Words: 59,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25932064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theAsh0/pseuds/theAsh0
Summary: Darkfic.(you can read this stand-alone, maybe with this handyRecap:In 1945, one soul survivor is rescued from a lab in Austria; a one-armed man with two bullets in the head. Yakov recognises what he has in his hands soon, and harnesses the man’s help in the secret police rooting out the last Nazi’s in East Berlin. But then, the man remembers his real name: Bucky Barnes. Desperate for help, Yakov turns to his nephew, cousin Vas.Who promptly shoots Bucky in the face and takes him to his Siberian base.Or, read these chapters fromjoyride: stealingChapter 6: NapChapter 13: Game of ChessChapter 24: cousin Vas
Series: Joyride [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1479119
Comments: 100
Kudos: 9
Collections: Bucky and or winter soldier centric, Creating the Winter Soldier





	1. intro

**Author's Note:**

> -Hi guys!!
> 
> So, I wrote most of these during joyride:stealing as backstory. But, some are awfully disturbing. (ps, looks to be okay-ish till about 4.. but, it gets worse) So disturbing that I actually upset myself. Seriously, they are the product of a sick mind and I don’t know this person.
> 
> So, I decided to bundle ‘m. I will add the warnings when I need them, but you are forewarned. Nothing is okay with any of these characters. Nothing will be okay at the end. And nothing will be okay for a long way off. Not until Joyride:lying, and part 4 & 5\. 
> 
> I’ll start posting Joyride:lying too though, so there’s a nice recovery/roadtrip fic if that’s what you’re looking for. 

“Nikita..”

His head is  _ killing _ him.

“Nikita.. Can you hear me?” In English. It’s someone; Someone’s there. Trailing a careful finger over his jaw. It prompts him to open his eyes. But, the light floods him from one side like burning white lava; the right. Left does nothing; nothing but pounding pain. That and complete darkness. Some removed part of him offers that that eye must be bandaged shut. He is thankful enough; for that small mercy. The right is bad enough; has him pressing it closed with finality. The left would have him wishing for death. 

The man keeps talking; slow, comforting tone with a hint of unease. If the one watching over saw him twitch, he doesn’t show it. And he thinks perhaps the words now might be Russian. He feels curious about that. For a moment debates trying again to open that right eye. But, he is too tired. Spent again. A moment later he is gone; back asleep.

-

“Fascinating really…” in Russian again. But, in a different voice; A clinical voice; new voice. Or, perhaps not. Perhaps it’s been talking for a long while now. Perhaps it had been here before the comforting voice. Perhaps it has always been there. “He is truly a marvel.” 

But, at least the comforting voice has not left him. Though, it is a lot less friendly now, directed at Clinical. “I know..”

A pensive humm from Clinical. A rustling of papers, and then someone bends down close to him. Smell of bad coffee and chemicals and old blood. “Frontal lobe is all healed. I still see some scarring on the temporal left on the scans,..” something touches his scalp; trails to his temple with a grunt. It should be a finger, yet it feels more like rubber. “Skull and skin on the outside looking perfect already. Amazing; I’ll request another scan for today. Now, for the eye…kindly dim the lights Lieutenant.”

A grunt from the old, familiar voice. “Will he be okay though? Will he completely heal?” Something happens to the feel of the room, the burn that had been trying to wiggle its way into his right eye lessening. Then, there’s a sudden rush of cold air against the left. Warning lights flash; because even the dark already burns. He.. tries to grunt. Nothing happens. Trying to squint his eyes further closed, wrinkling skin for extra protection.. Yet, the combined effort of his attempts.. does nothing.

The new voice again, light and pleased. “That seems a given. What I want to know is, how fast..” a light, small and burning. Over his face, creeping to his eye. And a hand, covered in rubber, taking hold of his lids; pulling. Pulling them apart, even when he tries to blink back and...

His left hand flies up, trying to ward the.. --the doctor? it must be a doctor-- away. He is aware that there is not enough of that arm, but; he brings it up, and the Clinical man with his annoying light flies. The kind voice, yelling something about a tank; surprise and wonder in his voice. Then finally, a grunt, a curse and some stumbling. He.. he just groans to cover the noise. 

Until the comforting voice returns to his side. “Nikita! You are awake!” this time, in english. He registers, but doesn’t know why this is important.

‘Leave off.’ he wants to say, but all that comes out if a whimper. 

Still it is good to feel the familiar man's proximity, his hands hovering close. The heat of foreign hands close to his skin, reaching out almost desperately. “Nikita! You are awake!” For a moment, both their attention is taken by the doctor that has opened a door, pulling air from the room and inviting in all sorts of strange, half-familiar smells. The doctor mumbles in Russian, stumbling through the door obviously unsteady. Curses and something about  _ freaks and bad training _ .

Only when the door is shut does the kind man that has stayed on his side, speak. “Do you remember what happened?”

He.. Nikita? Groans again. Tries to turn away, settles to just fling his arm over his eyes. And for the second time it registers as too short; missing the end? There's no hand, no lower arm. But the man realises his distress, and soon a blanket settles over his eyes. “It’s me. Yakov. Are you.. Do you remember me..?”

He has the worst headache. And, he does not want..

But something in Yakov’s voice changes. A hint of panic. “You can understand me, yes? Do you.. Can you even speak?”

And he seems like such a nice man. So loyal. Been sitting by his side for days now, must be. So, Nikita takes a deep breath, and tries his best. “Give us a few, okay?”

It comes out barely intelligable, but it seems to settle the man. This Yakov. Besides, Nikita will try again, after some sleep. He just needs a few more hours. Because his head is killing him..

“It’s okay.” Yakov sounds relieved, but still a little worried. “It’s just that. There was an accident. You were shot. Do you remember?”

“..sure.” That sounds like it should make sense. “later?” 

-

“Hello there. Sergeant.” The blotch at his left side speaks, and perhaps that kickstarts his brain into making sense of those dancing spots. Into trying to see something beyond just shapes and colors. He blinks. Blinks again. Rolls his head slightly towards the sound. Getting the blotches to the center of his impaired vision.

A young man stands by the door, decked out in a heavy coat and many medals. Carrying himself with a kind of military poise that suggests pride and confidence. The only suggestion that this man might not be perfectly at ease is the two armed guards that have mysteriously appeared on either side of him. “Do you remember me..?”

Nikita frowns, again. That seems to be all he does. Frowns till the insides of his head hurt so bad they want to run out of his ears like goo. He blinks, rubbing his left temple into the pillow. Blinks again, somewhere registering that both eyes are receiving input and at least his eyes no longer burn from a bit of light.

He might stay silent a bit too long, staring up from his bed, towards the man at the door. Flanked by his soldiers. There’s something.. and _ Sargeant  _ is familiar. More so than Nikita, at least. “I..” it’s no use. There’s so little to hold on to. And trying  _ hurts _ . “I guess not. sorry.”

Oddly enough, that seems to relax the man. “That’s alright.” Though, a quick flixk of his eyes towards Yakov suggests that it’s not alright at all. The old man seems tense. Heartbeat jumping with this young general's words. Sweat. Nikita swears he can smell his cold sweat. Feel his fear and hear his pounding heartbeat.

But the young man shrugs, slight amusement softening his features as he pulls up the second chair in the room, and sits at the Sergeant’s side. “It’s nothing to worry about, really. Let me introduce myself. My name is General Vasily Karpov.” he grins, something wicked in his expression. “Newly promoted actually.”

“Oh.” Nikita blinks, when he realises he’s supposed to respond. “That’s nice. Congratulations?”

“So. What  _ do _ you remember?”

“I.. was going to meet someone?” Nikita hopes that would be enough. That he would be allowed to drift off again. But the man prompts with his eyes. Moves just a tad everytime sleep nearly shuts his eyes. “I was going to the north pole..”

“Siberia.”

“What?” 

“You were going to Siberia,” the General explains with a hint of condensation, “not the North Pole. You were coming to  _ my _ base.” 

“ No, no I was going.. I was going there to meet someone. Someone. Importan..” Nikita stalls. Or whatever his name is. It feels like the temperature in the room just dropped. Perhaps suggesting this General is not important is not the best idea. He wrinkles his brow; tries to access those sluggish memories. “Someone I knew. Really well?” 

The young general grunts. “I am sorry. I should not corrupt your memories. Again, what do you remember?”

“There was a man. He shot me.” 

“Yes.” General Vasily shifts, too tense. “Do you remember his face?”

Nikita swallows around the cotton and pounding headache. “It was dark. There were floodlights. Right behind him. I.. no.” maybe, he could identify by body posture but.. No. there really wasn’t enough. “No.” 

Nikita blinks at the after images; exhausted by just this much. The pounding in his skull when he tries to remember. Like his body is trying to go on high alert; feels like he should run.. But. he is too tired. And he is safe, here..? Blinking he nearly messes the silent conversation between Yakov and this young general Karpov. 

Finally, Yakov turns towards him, eyes pleading. “Please. Is there anything else you remember?” 

Squinting, in an effort for concentration. “I.. no I.” just.. “Have we done this before..?” 

-

He drifts off but soon enough that general is back. He sends Yakov out for a walk and walks Nikita through his own file, adamant Nikita memorizes his life story if he cannot remember it for real.

They call him the American sometimes, but he was born a Russian.

His parents left the Motherland when he was a toddler; this was treason. But his parents paid the price: worked to death in American factories. Nikita was orphaned at seventeen, forced to join the army. And then, the war happened.

He fought well. Made it to sergeant. But a few months before victory, he was gravely injured in a bombing. And the Americans deemed him no longer profitable and cast him aside. 

But, General Karpov had wanted to help. In secret, and at night. Because.. Some people of the proletariat might become jealous.

And then, on their way to meet the doctors in Berlin, Nikita must have taken a wrong turn. They broke into an abandoned parking lot; not the back door to a clinic they had meant to take. And got shot by a security guard. It would seem to be an honest mistake. Except the security company will not give the name of the perpetrator.

“This is not a strange thing. These men stick together, and it isn't unheard of for there to be executions for mistakes.” “ But, if you think it was on purpose. If you think the guard knew who you are. Do not hesitate to tell, and I will lean on them. Hard.” 

“ it’s just..” he is exhausted. “Probably just an accident. Doesn’t matter, right?” 

“No, it doesn’t. You will make a full recovery. It was just was a little glancing hit.”

“Then..”

Then just let him  _ sleep _ . 


	2. healing

A nameless herd of doctors surround the surgical table, standing and staring with their rubber gloved hands up. Bespectacled faces hidden behind surgical masks. Nikita balks, faces swimming for a moment; as he steps backward, a deeper urge telling him to flee. 

“My friend…?” Asks Yakov, sounding suddenly very far away.

And Nikita blinks; gathers his courage. At least up to the point where he can hear a faceless doctor’s voice over the beating of his own heart. “We are ready for you, Sergeant. Please, lay down?” 

Nikita’s eyes follow the man’s gesture to that sinister table. A metal slab surrounded by lurid instruments and moving machines and “it’s got restraints. Why has it got restraints?”

If Nikita sounds scared. If his voice is weak and jittery. Well. Maybe he is scared, dammit. He’s not afraid to admit that. Not really. Because fuck m all, he’s been to war. Had his bloody arm blown off and everything. He’s already proven his bravery, ten times over. Surely. Even if he doesn remember. But this. This is the stuff of nightmares.

The front doctor blinks at him owlishly from behind thick glasses, speaking slowly but in deliberate and clear English. “Because, if you move during the procedure, the nurses will have a big mess to clean.” 

One of the colleagues behind him snorts, and Nikita catches something about Americans and their big mouths making more work for Russians. Nikita swallowed. “I.. Aren’t you just going to knock me out?”

“That would be counter-productive,” the same doctor explains, again in the condescending tone. “If you cannot move the prosthetic for us, how will we know it is working? But, we will use local anesthetics, all right?”

“I -I don’t know..”

More muttering from the doctors; but Yakov steps between him and their derition; hisses for silence before resolutely showing the men his back. He carefully moves closer, a hand hovering over Nikita’s shoulder, inches from touching. “My friend... This was hard to arrange. If you say no.. then it is no. But, this is the only chance.”

“I.. I don’t like being strapped down.” Nikita doesn’t know why, but the idea makes him sick. “Can’t we do it, like. How about I just sit? I can hold still.” Nikita gestures; reaches out with his one hand; weakly. 

Yakov steps back minutely; blows out a huff or air. The hand raises up high; out of reach. “This is non-negotiable. These doctors are the best of Russia. Thus, the best in the world. They come here, to Siberia, for _ you _ . I will not tell them how to work. Now, do I need to beg for forgiveness in wasting these men’s time, or will you..” Yakov tilts his head, offers out a hand, “take this chance. This  _ opportunity..? _ ”

Like a drowning man, he grabs for it; that buoy, even before he knows why. Grabs onto the older man’s hand for dear life. But Yakov’s kind smile seals it. “Come on, this’ll be one time, I promise. Then, it will be over.” 

But, Nikita considers much later, as he kicks open the door out of the barracks’ medical bay and flings himself out. As he drags in his first breath of fresh air for what seems like weeks. This _one time_ has already lasted _six_ _months_. Six months of hell, and he’s had enough.

-

Yakov freezes in the low afternoon light; half-way across the empty concrete of their stately Siberian base. After a moment the tense figure lights up a cigarette, body angled to protect the flame from the bouts of sharp autumn winds. And the old lieutenant sighes. His wife, arm looped through his, holds perfectly still. She too studies Nikita in the low light, then murmurs, up into his ear, “are you sure the infection isn't back?”

Yakov grunts in answer, puts a careful hand on his wife’s back and whispers a soft “wait here.” He continues to the barrack entrance alone, hesitantly, whole focus on the figure in front of him. He studies the man; his friend, as he crosses the open space of empty concrete. Nikita looks almost small against the stately oversized architecture. The hard, rigid lines of stone giving the appearance that the flesh under that heavy cloak must be soft. The scourging winds suggests there is heat with that man; the little plume of smoke waving away from him. 

But Yakov knows this can all be owed to willful thinking and a degenerate imagination: The lines of the Nikita’s shoulders are hard and mean. His body studiously turned away in the appearance of deep thought. Like he doesn’t notice Yakov’s approach. While Yakov knows these things are not something their Ghost could miss, even if he tried. 

All this can only mean one thing. His charge is angry. No; Nikita is beyond angry. He is enraged up to the point he knew he was about to come to blows, and has stepped out here for a moment to cool down. Yakov has to remind himself that this is  _ progress. _ That only yesterday, another doctor had to be admitted to the hospital ward with a serious back injury. “Nikita..”

Yakov sighs, hums to himself when he finds himself ignored again. He will admit, in the privacy of his own mind, that as much as he loves this man; this creature. He is also  _ scared _ of him, when he gets like this. Because Nikita is like a draught horse in this: all beauty and kind good manners. Until Nikita’s temper snaps and the rug is pulled out from under Yakov’s legs; until this marvel of science shows it’s true colors. 

Enough power to kill on a whim; enough speed to end Yakov without him ever knowing how he had died.

If it ever came to that.

Still, Yakov should try and qwench this cowardly fear. Around Yakov,  _ Nikita _ has always been well behaved. Much better than Bakushka. They have had none of the little accidents around the house that had been so frequent back when they had.. both lived in Yakov’s house. 

It’s only the doctors that Nikita has snapped at so far. And honestly, Yakov can understand the frustration. But.. “Nikita, you cannot keep doing this..”

The man finally turns, but only to give him a frown; angling his face towards Yakov barely enough to see the arched eyebrow, the stone-faced expression. The one that says ‘watch me,’ and is one-hundred percent certified  _ not a bluff _ . 

“Nikita,” Yakov feels all his fifty-two years, watching the boys hackles raise further. “Two doctors have already refused to work with you further. My Cousin, General Vas? He is not amused..”

Nikita scoffs, blowing out smoke aggressively. “Well maybe get me a  _ real  _ doctor next time. Fucking ass. Said I was Whining;  _ whining! _ ”

Yakov groans, not even bothering to hide the sound. Comes closer to find shelter in the awning too, leans the bulk of his weight on a concrete wall. “Is this about the doctor you assaulted yesterday? ”

“Assault my ass. I didn’t  _ do _ nothing. Told him if he didn’t think that damn monstrosity they built me was too heavy,  _ he _ could carry it.” Bakushka- no, Nikita now- waves the bulky metal in between them, barking a maniacal laugh. The hand glints, all steel alloy and shiny gears. Silver up to where it disappears into his heavy sleeve. But Yakov knows it continues up past the elbow, that has now been redone in metal, jutting out sharp enough to cut flesh. “Just leaned his monstrosity onto him. Not my fault that weak-ass busted his back trying not to tip over. Pussy.” 

Nikita keeps grumbling, words not loud enough nor clear enough over the wind, before trailing off. “Fuckers have got to be kidding..”

Yakov doesn’t say anything. Just frowns into the fading autumn sun. Siberia gets darker and darker every day. He is not looking forward to winter; wants to be out of this hell-hole that has become his home. Now that Angelica has made her way here, sold their estate, it really hits home. This has become his world. But, not yet. Perhaps Yakov still has a chance, at least to make it out of here. With Nikita. Before winter. 

“I’m sorry.” 

Yakov doesn’t move from his wall; doesn’t move closer, but puts his hands into his pockets and looks away. “You should be. This has got to stop.”

“It’s just.. These doctors are driving me crazy. They never listen. Do whatever they want; then get mad at me when that hurts. I am so sick and tired..”

Yakov’s heard it all before. It’s a vicious circle: Nikita tells the doctors they are hurting him, which the doctors refuse to believe, because they dosed NIkita with sedatives. Then one suggests it’s psycho-somatic pain. At which point someone will suggest his Nikita is weak, or not a real man. And then, Nikita puts his fists down. Literally. 

Still, today, they were supposed to just talk. Find a common ground. A way to work together. 

“Do you know what their solution was, Yakov?” Nikita grinds his teeth, muscle in his jaw pumping with effort. “They figured they could just tie me down, Yakov. Again.” There’s a tension in Nikita now, a need to move. He fights it, rubs his real palm against his pants. But Yakov can see him pace, in his minds eye, like some caged tiger. “We  _ agreed _ that we were not going to.. I am  _ not _ going to let them tie me to a table like.. Like..” 

Yakov  _ had _ promised. Though, at this point, Yakov’s not sure he has the clout to make demands. Not with Vasily. Not here, at his own base. A base that somehow mysteriously became Vas’s very own, with that juicy promotion. Just when Bakushka/Nikita was flown in and placed into their hospital ward.

Yakov feels dearly taken advantage of. He’s also pretty sure that, as long as he is stuck here, sticking up for either of them would be suicide. 

Still, there has to be a ways out. “But, the arm’s finished, right? What do they even want to prod you for? Haven’t they cleared you for combat?” Yakov wonders if the doctors are dragging this out on purpose. There was a mission in Korea coming up. It would be perfect for Nikita. Yakov could go for winter in Korea. As long as they get out of this grey concrete coffin before they got snowed in. and once there, who knew? They could be free; or at least find a different patron to take them in. anyone’s likely to be better than Vasily Karpov. 

Nikita, on the other hand, snorts like he couldn’t care less. “I didn’t need this shit arm for missions. Fuck General Vasily and his stupid demands.”

“You shouldn’t antagonise the General.” Sometimes Yakov wonders who he is trying to convince. Vasily may have moved up quickly thanks to the American falling into his hands; that would only mean he would not let go. Speaking of which. “Did you remember anything yet? Anything from before. Or, maybe from the  _ shooting _ ..?”

Nikita grunts, pulling at his cigarette deeply again. “Is it even that important? At this point, I’m thinking I’d rather  _ not _ know.”

Yakov sighs, again. This is hard. It all makes him feel old. Tired. Stuck between a rock and a hard place, perpetually dancing to another man’s tunes. Waiting for Nikita to come to his senses. For Nikita to save him.. But now, with his nice south-Russain estate gone, he wonders if there’s even any chance left. That reminds him. “I want you to meet someone. Ah. re-introduce.” Yakov waves her over, and Angelica starts her dantly walk towards them. “ my wife..”

Nikita, of course, does give over his whole attention to  _ her _ . Yakov grimaces at the sight of it. He can hardly blame his friend. Angelica has a striking figure, and the poise of a prima-ballerina. A dame amongst women. 

And, there’s a total of three women at this entire base right now, so even an ugly one would have turned heads. 

But Nikita, packed in his heavy coat, frowns in confusion. Then, straightens as an afterthought. The cigarette bud is discretely tossed aside when she gets close. 

“So nice to meet you again, Nikita..” His Angelica curtsies minutely, then extends her right hand, fingers arched up and wrist angled down in a perfect S. Nikita, by some half-memory, must know the gesture, and reaches out. But, Angelica, perfect as she is, pulls back minutely. “Please, the other hand.” 

Nikita grimaces, pulls back slightly to reveal his new metal arm. Then reaches out carefully, resting the lady’s gloved hand on metal. “Sorry. It’s ugly.”

“No.” she counters, a rare smile dancing in her eyes. “It’s amazing.”

“Are you..” Yakov has the distinct impression the pair has forgotten about him. His wife’s hand travels up to his love’s mouth and gets a short, showy kiss over locked eyes. Then, the spell appears broken, as Nikita cocks his head. “Are you okay..?” 

Angelica’s smile slips. Back to that true polite neutral. “Whatever do you mean?”

Nikita blinks, finally turns towards Yakov, obviously confused. “You seem to be in some pain..?”

Yakov shrugs; he wouldn’t know. Wouldn’t even have brought Angelica from their house up on the other side of the base. But, Vas had insisted. Angelica give one of those short, fake laughs she does. “Might have overdone things with selling the house and traveling. This weather is not good for my ankle either. But never you mind, it’s not important.” 

Nikita hesitates “My mother taught me.. A real man should not see a woman in pain and do nothing..” 

And Angelica smiles thinly, in that way she has. “And no doubt she taught your sisters to never bother a man with their pains.”

And that seems good advice to Yakov. If anyone needs to worry about Angelica, it would be her husband. So, definitely not Nikita. Hell, Yakov would carry his wife from here to their house and cook every meal if it would make Nikita stop looking.. 

Nikita’s brows come down, his mouth snapping closed in mid-replay., as he finally does take his attention away from Angelica. “Yakov.. Did I have sisters?”

“Why don’t you ask Vasily.” Yakov knows he’s being mulish, but he doesn’t have the energy for more. Yakov has been in hell for six months, but it’s about to get worse. “He’s the one that got your file.” 


	3. trapped!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> reaaal serious internalized homophobia here. so, that's an added warning.

“Vasily, you asshole!” Yakov is near-boiling. Spitting angry. He wouldn’t care, even if this little stunt finally would be the thing to get him killed. Hell, he’d just try and take his bastard Nephew with him.

The young general smiles at him over his papers. “Come in, uncle. Close the door, would you?”

Yakov obliges. Slams it shut behind him and marches over to the desk. Mahony. How the little  _ creep _ managed to get his hands on a mahony desk Yakov doesn’t even want to consider. “You got a lot of nerve, don’t you?”

The young man grunts, without taking his eyes off the papers in his hands. “Just got this report. Did you know what the Americans are doing to homophiles now? Chemical castration. Yow. and they call us uncultured. I mean, you’d prefer a bullet to the brain any day, right Yakov?”

Yakov winces, the cold, hard fear back into his gut. There’s no point in denying it; not here, in the privacy of Vasily's office. Though Yakov would; definitely and adamantly deny it all, if publicly confronted. He is, at heart, a coward. And it shows; damn it shows. In his tone, near to begging. Yakov hates himself just that little more for it. “I did everything you asked of me. Even pushed him for that damn arm of yours. You  _ promised _ I’d be safe here.. that  _ we _ would be safe here.”

And how Yakov sourly regretted every moment of this last half year. Yes, his nephew had gotten Yakov out of a situation that he had not seen a way out of. But, it’s the proverbial out of the frying pan and into the fire. If Yakov didn’t feel bad enough about allowing the man he.. He loves to get shot, he most definitely regrets everything after. And, the fast empty life of Siberia has given him enough time for guilt to fester about all his actions.

And yet; and yet this demon here in front of him knows his secret. And Vasily is just ruthless enough to use that knowledge at every opportunity. To twist Yakov’s arm and demand more of him. More of what he knows is wrong. Yakov maybe a coward. May be sick in the head. But, he does have a conscience. And it is slowly eating him up from the inside. At this point, Yakov doesn’t know if it was worth it at all; that betrayal in the parking lot that got his dear Bakushka shot. Death sounds like a relief, honestly.

Vasily stretches, dropping the paper he’d had in hand to the desk and visibly crosses his legs. Raising his arms till they pop in their sockets and groans, stretching his back. “You  _ are _ safe here, and you have been. I have kept you safe. But, do you even realise,” Vasily springs to his feet, banging on the desk as he looms over his uncle, “how lucky you are here, in this safe haven?”

_ More like a prison. More like a cage. _ And safe? How safe is he really, with Vasily Karpov guarding a secret that could have Yakov court-martialled? “You  _ know  _ I know the dangers. I _ know _ I have nowhere to go. You rub it in  _ every chance. _ ” And Yakov wishes he wasn’t like this; wishes he was normal. But, he is not. “And yet you do not trust me.. Won’t let me out of your sight?” that Vasily wouldn’t trust Yakov alone with Nikita; he can understand. “I know I am.. Not right in the head. But, you cannot believe I would betray my own nephew?”

Vasily smiles, looking down at this desk as he trails his fingers over the top, stands to rest on fingertips places wide apart, and bends over conspiratorially. “It’s just that I’ve been wondering; with how you follow and obsess him like a love-sick puppy. You wouldn't do anything to endanger _ yourself,  _ would you..?”

Vasily isn’t wrong. He knows that lying to Nikita. To Bakushka or.. Bucky is what is tearing him up inside. He knows that a confession is probably what would finally free that rock off of his chest that has been resting there for months. In fact, there had been many times Yakov wanted to confess. To tell the truth. But, Yakov is a coward at heart. And everytime scenario he has imagined; every way it could go. All of them end with Yakov dead, or wishing he was dead at the very least. 

Still, at this point, Yakov is wishing he was dead anyway. Because, after another round of tests, and checkups and some dental work -because apparently even Nikita suffers from cavities-, Nikita has been cleared for mission, and is currently on his way to Korea. Butm his field contact; nn his field contact is  _ not _ Yakov. “So you replace me with my  _ wife? _ ”

“Well you see, uncle.” Vasily bares his teeth, a small twinkle in his eye; from up this close, there’s a maniacal glee to it. “It appears she is also comfortable enough to work with our.. new asset. But, after a good talk, I realised that she is less likely to _ betray me and run off with the man.” _

_ “I would never…”  _ Which is another lie, of course. At this point lying may be Yakov’s ingrained reaction to anything. Perhaps, there really is no possible way out of this trap he’s walked right into. But, at this point, Yakov would have gone for a few good months hiding away in Asia with a clear conscience. Even if Nikita would have remembered his betrayal and right out killed Yakov, that might be better than this existence. Which, Yakov cannot honestly believe that happening. Nikita is the only good man he’s known in a very, very long time. He  _ is _ ; fiery temper and intimidating strength notwithstanding. 

“Ho, please, uncle. You’ve been trying to hint him I shot him since he woke up. It’s a good thing he’s so dense, or I’d have had to have to shoot him again. Which,  _ I will, _ you know.” 

Yakov gathers his courage. Draws himself up. “It wouldn’t matter. He’ll just remember again, even if you do. Even  _ faster _ than this time and..”

“Please,” his Nephew cuts him off; but there’s no hint of begging in his voice, no trace of fear now. No, if anything, the general’s voice drips with disdain and disgust. “Do you think he’s going to  _ rescue _ you? Do you fancy yourself a maiden in distress? You set him up, you fool. Besides, even if he could forgive you, if he ever finds out what you are, he’ll dump you for the degenerate you are.” Chin jutting forwards, Vasily bends over his desk, closing their distance further, spit dripping onto the older man. “Nikita may be a monster, but he’s no  _ fairy. _ ”

Heart hammering in his throat, Yakov sputters, falls half a step backward, unable to contain his knee-jerk reaction: “I’m not. I’m..”

“But, he  _ could _ be..” 

Yakov needs to gulp for breath twice, knees like jelly under his weight “..what?”

Vasily gestures with a hand, then sits down with a heavy sigh. “You see, I do not believe a man can  _ catch  _ homophilia. I have more.. modern views. I think one is simply one way, or the other.”

With a strength Yakov can only ever harness in the name of someone else, Yakov tries to reclaim lost ground. “Nikita is.. not.. like me.”

Ground is given too easily; Vasily straightens, then conspiringly crosses his arms to lean onto them on his absurd Mahony desk. “No, but you see. I do think that sometimes.. what a person is in this is not set that rigidly. 

“And Nikita..” Vasily stares up at him with the most tempting, naughty smile. “And Nikita, he’s certainly proven that he’s  _ malleable _ enough. Why, you’d never know Russian is not his first language at this point. Not to mention, any skill you tell him he used to excel at is his within weeks. And he takes to my stories  _ so well… _ ”

Yakov wavers; completely blindsided by this ludicrous, impossible offer. He grabs the so-far ignored chair on his side of the table, sits down hard. Ludicrous, impossible.. But what a beautiful fairytale. “I..”

“You see, Yakov. I see your purpose. You do good work; would probably do even better, if you could be closer.. and I would reward you with this. It would be good for _ him _ too. Why, Nikita is obviously lonely. And your wife, well. I’d kind of hoped they’d be fucking by now but..”

Yakov swallows down his heart. Yes; Angelica and Nikita both, they wouldn’t do that to him, would they? Angelica knows his secrets, as Yakov knows hers. Their marriage may be one of convenience, but they suit each other in this. Her dirty laundry is near enough as bad as his. As for Nikita? Nikita simply has standards. And so does Yakov, damn it. “Absolutely not.”

“No..? god, your lot just  _ begs _ to be unhappy, doesn’t it?” Vasily laces his fingers as he sits back with a frown, confusion distorting his features. “Why ever not..?”

“Because it’s disgusting. And, I know you just want another reason for Nikita...for Bucky to be afraid to return home, if he ever remembers..” Blinking once, twice; it hurts; to be offered that one chance at happiness. But, he knows he cannot take it. God, but it hurts. Yakov’s eyes feel wet, yet he tries to man up. Gets to his feet.

“Hmm.” Vasily pensively casts his way. “That’s too bad. Because with that extra noose I think I’d feel safe enough to let the both of you off your leash. Honestly uncle, you’d be a better contact than your wife. I mean, you may be getting old, but at least you can still walk.”

Balling his fists, Yakov turns away. Walks towards the door on unsteady feet. When he reaches it, his nephew calls out, “why do you have to make this so hard for yourself, uncle? You know what’s going to happen, eventually. If you force me to pair those two up. Because your wife is as hot as a bombshell. And I  _ know  _ you ain’t loving her right.” 

  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the part of chemical crastration was an actual worry for gay people in that day. one of our most famous and brilliant mathematicians suffered this fate and it likely cost him his life. https://nl.wikipedia.org/wiki/Alan_Turing


	4. 46-51

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Don’t lie, wife.” he chides. 

Yakov knows Vasily is right. He is a sexual degenerate. Has known it ever since he was a grunt in basic. When he first saw the naked bodies of his comrades and was filled with a heat he would never experience from a woman. But how depraved he truly is he only realises after his wife and Nikita have returned from their mission. The sick jealousy blinds him to anything, up to the point that it is night, and they are about to retire to their shared bed.

Yakov doesn’t even know why they bother with the pretence.

But, he does know Angelica well enough that the way she stares at the ceiling silently in the dark, in their terrible Siberian bedroom, in the terrible Siberian house is not her usual way to sleep. No, if his jealousy is keeping Yakov awake, something very similar is keeping Angelica up as well.

“You are upset.” he realises, with no small amount of sick glee.

She tisks. “It’s fine. Just a little left-over energy.”

They do make a pair, Yakov thinks. Him, a man that had run from his true nature up to the point where he had nearly repressed into a work-obsessed military man with a penchant of driving himself and his charges too hard. Her too, running away from her cruel fate: a Lady, lower nobility; but with hardly a chance at marriage due to a child illness. Working hard to become a prima ballerina. 

That short, brief moment of happiness. But a moment to tempt them, with empty blue skies and freedom. Where Yakov had broken; depressed and near-suicidal. Fallen into the arms of one of his protegees; a boy that had simply smiled, held him, and told him their love should not be spurned.. His dear Danska let him soar and live for the first time. And Angelica; she had flown; soared for real, on the stage. Loved by the public, and quite a few lucky men, she had confessed.

And their fall from grace, too, similar. Danska’s sudden deployment, the possibility of meeting again slim at best. A break-up, jarring in its sudden emptiness. Yakov hardly faulted Danska for finding a lover so soon after him. But, it had put him in a dangerous position; after Danksa and his lover had been found out, the rumours had gotten worse. Not just rumors either. Threats, getting passed for the best jobs. The constant animosity filled Yakov with fear for his own life, to the point that he found himself wishing to be dragged away by the police. Just for it to be over. Yes; in a lot of ways Yakov’s fall from grace was as damaging and public and career-ending as Angelica’s physical crash on the stage.

When Yakov’s mother had visited; haggard and well-aware of her son’s precarious situation, she had suggested the arranged marriage to lady Angelica. To a woman with a reputation as sullen and a career as damaged as his. Well.. if it would keep him out of jail, Yakov would have done nearly anything. But, even if there was no real, romantic love between them, Yakov knew her well. _Understand_ her. “Don’t lie, wife.” he chides. 

She groans. “It’s just.. Nikita. Is an uncultured boar. And his hamvistedness is going to ruin us both yet.”

“Are we talking about the same man?” Yakov wonders; to him Nikita’s every more is a wonder to behold. Grace and dignity and skill, all rolled into one, beautiful, powerful package. But, he starts, “he didn’t botch the mission did he?”

“No.” she sighs. “He got us discovered alright. Then he just single handedly took out the entire party they sent after us. But, one day, that man is going to run into something his ridiculous strength cannot get him out of, and then…”

“You worry too much.” Yakov tries to console himself perhaps more than his wife. “He is impossible to kill.”

“Yes. perhaps.” she turns away, sighing slowly. “But, we are not. And, Yakov. He _never listens._ ”

-

It takes several more years and many missions before her proficy is proven right. The initially small base gets an extension, the labor-force from the nearby camp providing workers; gaunt men sent on the thirty-mile trip in the early hours of light and sent back when the sun hangs low on Siberia’s not-quite dark summer nights.

Nikita and Angelica miss most of it; the construction of a stately building, and two years later, a bunker as well. But the pair, like some newly-wed couple, spent their days away in all the best places. In southern Poland, Czechoslovakia, and the Balkans for months on end. Trips to Berlin and Prague and Korea. Yakov tries not to worry. Tells himself what his wife has told him repeatedly: she cannot get along with Nikita at all. He is insubordinate, and what she calls ‘too macho’, though Yakov knows there’s no such thing. 

Indeed, one time they return from a two-month mission, and Angelica is screaming at the man. To which he hardly reacts until she tries to slap him. And, he picks her hand right out of the air. Right before it hits. It’s a picture right from the movies. The tired trope: a man that makes a woman’s blood boil..

Still, it’s the Winter of 1950-’51 when it all goes to hell. And, Yakov has to admit that it’s not all in Angelica’s head, at least.

This year there’s a stall in the missions. A problem, perhaps, with General Vasily’s standing. Yakov and his wife have been relocated from their little on-site house, into the main building of the compound. Everyone is packed together, making the usual empty, large halls crowded and full. People have built little houses for their families inside the halls. Everywhere it’s crowded and packed with people, wrapped in blankets. Workers and scientists together. Doctors and janitors and everyone. 

The ungodly cold isn’t even unusual, nor is the snow. Packed up high enough that at this point leaving the main building is impossible. But, the shortages are. Even through the first few lean years, this research and development center has always had enough food, enough fuel to pull them through the dead, dark winters in this awful land. But, not this year. Yakov suspects a power struggle. But, it might just as well be a bureaucratic failure.

Regardless, the near-by airstrip is impossible to reach, and impossible to use, there is nothing left to burn, and all the food storages are near empty.

A young sergeant gets the idea into his head. Official word is that there are no grain shortages. There should still be food at the next town, or perhaps at the labor facility thirty miles out. Though, Yakov has seen that place and doubts anyone from there is even left alive. When relief comes, it will come to those poor bastards last of all.

Still, the young Sargeant rounds up the young and brave by show of hands, and makes to leave. Which is all fine, because at least it will mean more food for those left behind. But then, of course, Nikita has to join that expedition.

Yakov objects. Angelica objects.

General Vasily, finally on the same page, _forbids_ it.

Nikita, of course, simply waits for the expedition to head out, and follows them out a day later.

Yakov cries and drinks himself into a stupor. Three days straight, until there’s no alcohol left even in medical. And he even catches Angelica; poor brave woman that she is, rubbing at wet eyes. Yakov had known it was a suicide mission. He had known; all the men had known.

And, objectively, he can understand. Nikita eats as much as three grown men, and that was when he was pacing himself. Growing lean through winter. And Nikita has such a stubborn soft-streak. Yakov had to tell him off at least three times, trying to feed the few children stuck in this nightmare his meals. Yes, Yakov appreciates the gesture. But what Nikita doesn’t see is without him, this entire base wouldn’t even merit what little resources they do have.

Sure, there had been a base before Nikita and Yakov. But it was small and insignificant compared to what this is growing into. There are a lot of men, a lot of soldiers and a lot of scientists dispatched here. All dependent on Nikita; all living off his success. Perhaps there had been projects before Nikita, but by now anything not directly applicable to Nikita or his arm, is mercilessly defunded.

So, without Nikita here; without him on base.. All of their complete existence has become.

Useless…

And that’s exactly now Yakov feels; without him. Useless and pointless and..

The rest of that winter; the first few months of ‘51 are spent in a bleak half-aware state. Everyone seems to be as depressed as Yakov. Starving in the dark, everyone saves their energy; moves as little as they can. Yakov spends a lot of time wishing he were dead, spends a lot of time wishing everyone was dead. The near-complete dark of their days and nights nearly a relief. It suits him; suits them all. The groans of people shrinking over their aching empty stomachs. The soft crying of children. 

When a plane finally makes it with relief, he doesn’t want the food Angelica forces down his throat.

But then, somewhere half through March, when thaw finally sets and the mountains of snow that had hemmed them all in melt into cold grey water, Nikita comes stumbling back into base.


	5. snowangel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A lumbering monster, whatever true colors it has hidden under broad iced-white shoulders covered by fine power-like show. But,...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey guys! well, there is so much to cover and I'm trying to run through it nice and quick.  
> and, then there's the terrible news about Chadwick Boseman. so it's been a day already and it's only just past mid day.  
> the good news, Natasha is soon showing up! well, I'm already there. dammit! why do I have like 5 chapters in the pipe line at every given time? worse. every time I finish one, it's like 2 more demand to be written.

Yakov doesn’t know how he can be the first one to see the man. There are  _ many _ men out on the courtyard, some wielding snow-scoops, others clustered in small group on the newly-cleared cement smoking, bathing in the first rays of sun since winter. Because the sun is finally up for real; no longer just skirting by right under the horizon just to leave them in the dark another endless night. It’s his wife, of course, that had bullied him outside. Yakov was already almost thankful for it, getting away from the smell of unwashed bodies and depression. Getting some sun on his face.

Yet, one moment he’s thinking of what Nikita would think of this fine spring morning. What his face would look like in the light of the first real day of the year, and a moment later.. A moment later a white shape stumbles onto the crest beyond the base’s fences.

A lumbering monster, whatever true colors it has hidden under ice and covered by fine power-like show. But, there’s something about the gait, something about the way he slips down the frozen mountain of snow, obviously exhausted and unsteady, yet stays on his feet and continues on. Something about that left sleeve too; wrinkled and frozen solid but too empty to contain an arm. 

There are voices, calling. Fingers, pointing. But Yakov doesn't listen. He runs, feet in heavy boots dragging. Across the courtyard that feels wide and untraversable to his laboring longues. And yet a moment later he hits the meshed fence with hands and face, staring. Hardly registering the cold against his cheek, against his exposed fingers in the cut-off gloves. Then, Yakov is running for the opened gate. Skids through and makes a fool of himself slipping once at a frozen corner, then again only right after picking himself up; falling face-first into soft thigh-deep snow. Yakov doesn’t care.

He no longer cares what will happen; who will see. What they will think. He just fights his way out of the snow bank. Towards the pale, wet creature lumbering his way slowly but steadily. Yakov falls into him, arms coming around. Registering how bones under heavy, frozen coat hardly give against his onslaught, how the slow trek forward isn’t even stalled.

He looks up, looking for those blue eyes but finding nothing for shaded darkness under the heavy cowl; like Nikita has walked here with his eyes closed. But, it’s him. Unmistakable, even if his cheeks are covered in a frozen stubble. If the Cleft of his chin is hidden under hair and ice.

Blue lips. Blue; frozen, framed in ice-shards, dribbling from his stubble-turned moustache, at the sides of his mouth. Still Yakvo recognises the shape, the curves and that hint of softness. And Yakov kisses him, straight on those cold, frozen lips. Kisses, like he’s never kissed anyone before. Not even Danska. Holds onto him: his Bakushka. His miracle. He knows there’s people coming up behind him. Doctors and soldiers and comrades that he will lose over this. He doesn’t care anymore. Death is better than living a lie. 

“I love you.” It is all that he can say. Because, in Russia, kissing a man on the lips isn’t really a tell at all. And he _wants_ Nikitta to know; wants them all to know. He’s done with the lies. With the deceit and this terrible, terrible feeling that must be worse than death. _I love you._ _You don’t have to say it back. Don’t have to love me back. I just don’t want to.. Lie anymore._ Yakov takes a deep breath, with that realisation. “and, I need to tell you.. one more thing..”

And suddenly, Vasily’s hand lands on his back. “Medical, now.”

The silent threat stall his tongue. And yet, Yakov doesn’t care anymore. Depression has made him brave, perhaps. “I love him.” he growls at his Nephew; though Vasily had already known. As though it isn’t obvious, to everyone now, from the way he had just kissed him. And, then, he fights the soldiers for him. Fights his way until they leave him be. Let him take a part of Nikita’s near-dead weight. A frozen coat, over what had already become a too lean bulk. Yakov fears; fears so much.

They hustle Nikita towards the medical bay; a soldier at one arm, Yakovat the other. Nikita takes no active part, hardly seems to be there at all. Just walks whatever direction he’s prodded. That is also worrying. That also scares Yakov. But instead of giving into fear, he heaves himself under the frozen man’s left, hefting the half-arm over his shoulder a little less carefully then he’d have liked. There is no reaction; though the rust-colored sleeve tells him Nikita must be hurt.

And Yakov worries; fears, not for his own life. Not even for Nikita’s, but for how much can be salvaged. How much of his body will be lost to frostbite, how much of his mind lost to the ice?

Water and seeps through Yakov’s heavy coat where he’s in he makes contact with Nikita. That can’t be good. Yakov  _ knows _ that cannot be good. Not can the dazed say Nikita tries to crawl over the examination table be good; like that cannot be his final destination; like he wants to continue. 

Still, when Yakov grabs his hand and the nurses push down on his shoulders he seems to settle. Enough for the men in scrubs to start cutting and peeling off layer after layer of clothing. A moment, the hand is taken from him, cut free of that heavy glove, then returned. and Yakov gasps in relief, studying four fingers and a thumb. Blue, stiff, with what can only be ice in the veins. But, no black. No fingernails falling off and rotting flesh. And Yakov knows it’s too early to tell. That that hand might be dead; frozen through-and-through, and simply hasn’t cooled enough to rot but.. He hopes, then braces for the next sure sign of frostbite..

The boots come off next. Toes, in pretty much the same shape as the fingers. Though there’s a little more give in them. Likely due to all that walking. Slowly, carefully, Yakov mind forms the conviction that his dear Nikita came off unscatched; that he is simply immune to hypothermia due to whatever the Nazi’s pumped into him. If his body is okay, Yakov knows that his mind will heal as well. He’s done it before.

And then, the shirt comes off. 

Nikita is lean; has become thin. But, not much more than he had been, on leaving. That is not what makes Yakov’s breath catch. No, that is the festering wound where Nikita’s arm ends in metal. Yellow, swollen flesh with rips of pus. The joint half-way up the biceps is no longer shining metal, but red; leaking rust, a few dangling wires and plates all that’s left of the arm. And up, like that rust runs right through Nikita’s flesh, a red, angry rash.

“That was bound to happen.” a doctor shrugs, putting a questing hand on what should be burning, feverish flesh. It is not; Yakov can see it is cold, instead. Like the rest of Nikita “He missed his suppressant shots. And now, with that much rust, the body fights the invasion.” 

And that upsets Yakov too; that there was another reaction to the prosthetic, and no one even notified him. No one saw fit to tell him they were pumping Nikita full of suppressants, so that his body would not reject the prosthetic again. He’s.. he’s angry, Yakov realises. A righteous fury that he’s never felt before.

“Get him stable, everyone but medical out please.” that’s Vasily. That damn nephew of his that has profited from Bakushka’s misery. Well, no more. Yakov is done.

“I’m not leaving.” One hand still has Nikita’s frozen, cold fingers. Yakov uses the other one to grab the bed, physically throwing his shoulder against it and bracing himself. Because he knows; he’s sure, Vasily is about to have him dragged away. So, he tells Nikita, again; looking up at that still-silent face in hopes that maybe now he can hear: “I love you!” 

Someone prods at him. Pulls at his shoulder. Yakov just pushes them away, holds on for dear life. There’s a bit of grumbling. Some dereliction. And then, he hears Vasily leave. A doctor asks, quite civilly, if he will at least get off the patient, if that means he can stay. Vasily straightens, but does not let go.

“Is the prosthesis lost?” another voice, a mechanic. Yakov thinks.

“Likely. Doesn’t matter; it was showing bad signs of wear anyway.”

“No signs of frost-bite. Temperature coming up. Very little pupil reaction.”

They leave him be, passing over him like he wasn’t there. Yakov thinks that’s kind of them, at least. He already feels like he isn’t there any way. Has left like a dead thing for so long, all he can do is stay with his Nikita. But then, Vasily brings his next weapon against him.

“Husband.. Please.” Angelica, behind him. A hand on his shoulder as she speaks in clipped, hushed tones. “Come with me, Yakov. Do as the General says.”

“I am _ sick” _ if Yakov didn’t know for sure before, he does now. “I am sick of all of it. Sick of these lies! Sick, of doing what General Vasily brews up in his  _ Sick Mind _ !”

“Please!” she folds herself against his back, enveloping her with her arms, hand around his midsection. Putting her hands on him, while he is here. With him. “I love him.” Yakov nearly cries. A warding. A spell. A code. I love him; and not you: _ Do not make me choose. I would not choose you! _

She pulls once, then sighs, whispering in his ear. “Please come with me. You are acting  _ hysterical. _ ”

And that; that’s the last drop. He’s been mocked and humiliated his whole life, for loving. But, he cannot stop. He doesn't _ want  _ to stop. Doesn’t want to be told it’s wrong; doesn’t want to believe it’s wrong. And this, this suggestion that he is simply crazy? That his love is wrong? By the one person he thought was maybe on his side? Who was  _ contractually obligated by the sacred vows of marriage _ to be by his side?

“ _ I _ am acting hysterical?” Yakov turns, wrenches her hands from him by the wrist. She stumbles, falls back against a wall of medical equipment. The sight of her, off-balanced and wincing only enrages him further “I don’t care for  _ your tone, _ wife. And I don’t need to be told I’m hysterical by a woman.”

It becomes eerily quiet, in the hospital room, the bustle from before gone but for a slow, stead beat of a heart-rate machine. The doctors are suddenly all studying charts; the nurses and aides all very busy arranging blankets or fiddling with dials. Angelica straightens, obviously in pain. Yakov half-registers that he must have jostled her bad ankle again, yet he can hardly find it in himself to care. 

Angelica runs her sweaty palms across her dress. Then hisses at him, not trying half hard enough to keep their conversation private. “Please take this piece of advice my mother gave me. When powerful men demand what you would not give? keep your head down, shut your mouth up. And do as you’re told.”

Yakov grunts. “So like a woman, to value survival over truth.”

“Fine.” she straightens, head held high, neck craning. “Fine. See if I care.”

There is no further repercussion. And they leave him in peace, with Nikita. His dear Nikita. Leave him as he heals and slowly becomes lucid. And Yakov, though he looks over his shoulder; though he’s lost the courage to say the words. To say:  _ ‘your real name is James Buchanan Barnes and you need to get back to America.’ _ Yakov is a fool,

For he thinks he has won. 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yakov tries...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> added warnings: anti-semitism and reverence to the 'doctor trials', where in 1952 a group of Jewish doctors was accused and trialed for allegedly poisoning Stalin.

It’s only when Nikita sharts shaking that some form of awareness returns to him. Eyes start blinking, his hand in Yakov’s still cold to the touch but trembling with cold, sporadically twitching or squeezing. Until Yakov has to change positions; envelop his sweet creature’s fist in his, for fear of having his hand crushed.

When blue eyes with only a hint of blood flecks fix on him, Yakov says, one last time: “I thought I lost you. I love you!” and,

And Nikita actually smiles. Tired, a little weakly. But, he smiles. It’s the single most beautiful thing. And.. and, Yakov cannot ruin that, so he shelves the thought; the idea of telling Nikita his true name. He’d ruin that smile; get the man hurt, likely shot, if he told him now. Nikita is too weak, too vulnerable now, to do anything with the information. Yakov will tell him; he will. Just not yet. He’ll wait until Nikita can take that knowledge, and choose to either hide it away… or run. Yes.

Yes. that makes perfect sense. Yakov is not scared for himself this time. Not scared to lose _him,_ or lose his own life. He is just waiting for the right time to tell him. 

Or, so he tells himself, in the span of the following weeks.

His proclamation has made very little change in the man’s demeanor with him. Though, he has not repeated those words either. Hasn’t dared since. At this point, Yakov wonders if he spoke them at all, or if Nikita understands what they meant. It wouldn’t surprise him if he didn’t. Nikita’s whole world is missions and on-base interactions. And, though Yakov knows he’s not the only one.. Loving a man is not something one would speak of lightly. Or, perhaps this is Nikita’s way of letting him off easy; just a friendly smile, and then forget it ever happened.. It could be either. It could be both. So, Yakov holds off finding out.

Another act of weakness perhaps. But, if Nikita is about to run and leave him.. Well, Yakov would rather not have these last few days together be awkward.

These last days left to him. Nikita heals quickly; too fast perhaps for comfort. Yakov had told himself he was waiting for Nikita to be strong again, so.. Well, within a week he’s walking. Putting on lost bulk and joking about flash-frozen meat.

Because Nikita hadn’t managed to get out of the snow. None of the men that left on that expedition had; their frozen bodies recovered after Nikita’s directions. They had become snowed in, and froze to death. Which had, apparently, saved Nikita, when spring kicked in and he defrosted. Because otherwise, Yakov doesn’t want to think about what would have happened. Nikita is eating his own weight in fresh meat and potatoes right now; and Yakov is almost thankful for his nephew’s connections. The ones that make good food, again, happen.

But they dine like kings, whatever connection broke in their supply chain back and trying to make up for goodwill lost. At this point, Yakov tells himself he should probably wait until Nikita has his left arm again. Nikita would need that, to get away. Will need every advantage he can get, surely…

Of course, the doctors successfully battle the rash and reinstall an arm soon after. And Yakov.. Still holds his piece. Hasn’t even dared utter ‘I love you’ again. For fear of what truth it will invoke. The new arm is a little more sleek, a little better worked to imitate a real arm. Still bulky and squarish. From what Yakov understands, they haven’t changed much of the workings of the arm at all, except to coat all places of contact with platina.

There is some worry, after all, that the infection will return. That the suppressants keeping Nikita’s body from actively fighting the prosthetic will no longer be enough. No longer effective. So, Yakov puts off telling the truth until after Nikita is cleared. Until he is ready for duty. Of course, then the night comes that he is cleared and they celebrate, with drinks all around and Yakov balks at the last moment, coward that he is. He tries to find a quiet moment, really he does. But there’s always someone close, always someone within hearing distance. He tells himself he will tell, before they leave the next morning.

But, the next morning there’s even less chance to speak in private. The entire base is buzzing with activity. Vasily is about, his soldiers watching everything, and Yakov feels _him_ especially. And then his window of opportunity closes, and he is waving goodbye to his wife and the love of his life, while cursing his own cowardice.

When they return, almost a month later and at least a week past the official due date, Yakov accompanies his wife to their small house at the edge of the base, and helps her to bed. She is exhausted, after the trip and the debriefing and who knows what else. But Yakov knows Nikita would not be, so he spends the afternoon on his porch, drinking vodka like it’s liquid courage. 

It’s early evening when he tells him this is as much as he’ll get without passing out, and heads over to Nikita's private barracks. Something originally meant for four men, with only one bunk left and the added space used for a table, a book shelf and an actual wardrobe closet. There are curtains there too, with some sort of floral design on it. It nearly looks homely, with all the junk Nikita is procuring.

But, the homely atmosphere is ruined by the nervous energy when Nikita lets him in. He's pacing; throwing furtive glances out the window, and periodically stops to listen, frozen with his head cocked. Yakov, though near drunk enough to ignore anything, sits himself down at the table, and latches on to this different subject like a drowning man to driftwood. "You okay?"

“I swear there’s another bug in here, but I can’t find it.” Nikita twitches, then scratches at his left shoulder. Paces away and back to the window, pulls one curtain aside for a peek and closes it resolutely. Even standing still he's mobile, turning in place in a way that makes the room feel small and confining.

Yakov shrugs, nearly losing his balance on the rickety chair. “Maybe you’re getting paranoid.” Like Yakov was starting to get paranoid. Jumping at shadows, always thinking someone was watching, someone was listening. Well, there was nothing for it. Maybe they really were watching, listening. But.. this was as good a time as any. “Sit down, you’re making _me_ antsy. We have to talk..”

Nikita prowls over to the table, but doesn’t sit down. Towers over Yakov. “No duh. We’re being _used,_ Yakov. See? I just found out, a job I did a few years back was used to convict a group of Jewish doctors of treason.”

Yakov pauses, licks his lips, a little confused. He himself doesn’t believe that just because a little more evidence is needed, the target would have been innocent otherwise. And, there’s not supposed to be religion in Sovjet Russian. So, just being Jewish is likely a crime? He doesn’t know, nor care. Antisemitism is hardly new, and Americans have had their own fair part in it. Still, Yakov supposes homophobia is also a crime. And he himself would still be upset if he was tried for treason. Getting killed for how he cannot help but love is one thing.. Getting accused of something that heinous just going too far. Still, Yakov feels no kinship with these people. He has enough problems of his own to worry about some injustice done to people he does not know nor care for. Nikita however.. “You are very upset about this.” 

“Fuck, of course I’m angry. This is a fucking Nazi shinkt..” Nikit blinks, focussing on Yakov.”Aren’t _you_ mad? Your own _government_ is using us!”

Yakov doesn’t really. The world never gave him a fair chance; never loved him. So, why would he care for them? He cares for himself, he cares -to some degree- for his wife, and maybe for his family. He’d cared for Danska; kind, brave Danska. And, yes. He loves Nikita; this brave, beautiful man with too much heart. Yakov loves him _so much._ And that, that makes his decision. “The government, maybe. Vasily, _definitely._ ”

“What?” Nikita blinks; twice with his left. There’s a bit of a worrying twitch on that side, lately. Like he keeps feeling the sting of a mosquito somewhere along that side, but when he’s about to slap the little pest he cannot find it. Cannot even locate the right place to smack with his right hand.. Yakov tells himself that’s a worry for a later time. “You think Vasily is working outside of the government? You think he’s a traitor to the party?” 

“I think we cannot be sure. But, one thing I do know for sure..” Yakov feels his heart rate pick up, adrenaline sky-rocketing. It’s happening. Finally. “You need to run..” 

The pickup makes Yakov simultaneously more alert and queasy enough to throw up. He’s doing it, damn it. In the party’s name or in the name of whatever gods would look kinly to him. “Get to America. You were _American_ once. You told me they would take you back.. before Vasily shot you. Your real name was Bucky Barnes." 

It’s silent too long, in that little converted barracks. Nikita.. Bucky has finally stopped quivering in place. Instead, he stands frozen too long. Then, he slowly drops into the chair across from Yakov. Whispering in an odd mix of Russian and, perhaps not too surprisingly, English again. He rubs at his face, crosses his arms as he looks around widely. Eyes dancing and searching, like everything in the room is new. Finally, finally at least one fact in that line of bombshells appears to have found its mark. “ _General Vasily_ is the one that shot me?” 

This is no time for an identity crisis; Yakov is only now starting to think clearly; only now starting to realise the impact this knowledge would have on Nikita. There’s no lying about this. There will be no hiding and waiting. Nikita is no longer; he’s more Bucky again already. Yakov can see it in the way he moves. Vasily will know in a heartbeat. Two words out of this man’s mouth and it would be clear.. "Go. Go now. Leave me, and run.”

There’s one thing Yakov is starting to realise; one thing that seems to be true of all the incarnations of his American. Whether it’s Bucky or Bakushka or Nikita; the are all the same after all. Just different names for the same duck. The one that walk and quacks and, in all his skins, has a problem with _the simplest orders._ Because Bucky blinks at him once, then grabs _Yakov’s wrist_ and runs.


	7. run

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yakov remembers why they used to call Bakusha a ghost within seconds of leaving Nikita’s housing barracks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if it seems I am in a hurry... yes. yes, I am.

Yakov remembers why they used to call Bakusha a ghost within seconds of leaving Nikita’s housing barracks. When he wants to, he is perfectly silent. Knows where people are long before Yakov can hear voices or a scuffle of feet. Even in the early evening it is near-crowded in this area of the base. Still, With Nikita leading him Yakov runs into no-one; is seen by no-one.

But, at Nikita’s pointed finger or wave, he sees them. And, it’s an eye opening experience. There are always soldiers loitering in this area, as there are around Yakov’s own home. Yakov had never second-guessed that fact of life. Until Nikita leads him past official patrols and ostensibly loitering pairs as well. And Yakov curses himself a fool, to realise these soldiers were never loitering only now. They are all surveillance; too evenly placed. Too obviously walking their assigned beat.

But Nikita’s super-human senses do not fail him. He takes turns long before a patrol reaches their position, pushes Yakov into empty storage areas and holds a finger to his mouth for silence while Yakov strains his ears without hearing anyone approach. Before he knows it, they are inside a quiet garage, Nikita leading him through the near-darkness. A click, followed by a dull bang Yakov recognises as a car door opening, and next he’s pushed into the passenger seat of a truck.

Nikita -or, perhaps Yakov should try and get used to Bucky now- huffs a calming breath twice, resting his hands on the doorframe. Yakov can just make out his silhouette as he cocks his head slowly, listening for sounds far beyond Yakov’s hearing. Then turns to address Yakov with a kind of curt finality. “Stay here.”

Yakov is only just in time, before his ghost disappears, voice squeaking with apprehension. “What? Why?”

“I need to get Angelica,” Bucky’s voice, falters, turning worried. “She’s not a part of this thing, is she?”

“I.. no. I don’t think she is.” If everything had seemed like a dream before, this must be the rude awakening. Yakov had been on cloud nine; now, he’s hit the ground. Reality, that bitch, makes it clear she’s not done, has worse planned for him, he sees. “Nikita, you _ cannot  _ go back for her.” hell, Yakov doesn’t think Nikita should have stopped for  _ him. _ But, he would run with Nikita. Even if he could not make it. It would be worth it; to try. Like a dream; a fairytale. Eloping, A Bonny and Clyde ending, likely ending with a car full of bullets. And impossible and doomed escape. And yes, Yakov knows he will slow Nikita down. That what would have been easy on his own for Nikita will be a miracle with him there. But, with  _ Angelica _ ..?

Angelica.. with her dainty walk that only barely disguises a bad limp. With her long dresses and panties disguising her swollen leg. With her clean gloves covering hands that sometimes shake from the pain? The delicate lady that retires often right after dinner, to lie down and rest..? Angelica would slow even _ Yakov _ down. “We cannot take her with us!”

Nikita meets that declaration with a heavy silence. And even in the dark Yakov can imagine that pitying, blank stare Nikita levels on him. The one that makes Yakov cringe; feel unworthy and cowardly and  _ evil _ . “We cannot leave without her, is what.”

And.. it all clicks into place, doesn’t it? “are you..” Yakov swallows the lump in his throat that tried to choke him. “Are you.. In love with her?”

Nikita clicks his tongue. “She’s my f _ riend, _ Yakov. You do not leave your friends behind.” And then he really  _ is  _ gone. 

And Yakov sits there, and tries not to cry. Tries not to think. But, he’s sitting alone in the dark. In the passenger seat of a dank old truck, and he can hear his breath hitch; feel his brain running circles and hemming him in. He feels nauseous; cannot help it; he gets out of the truck, nearly hyperventilating, stumbles around. The truck is one of the personnel carrier kind; with a canvas top, he can see now. There are a few more vehicles parked here too, but Yakov cannot focus on that.

Yakov needs to just breathe; needs to calm down. But, all he can see is Nikita and Angelica and.. In his mind’s eye, they are skipping towards him, hands held. Smiling wistfully. It’s ridiculous. stupid. Yakov is losing his perspective. His grip on reality. And, the inside of his stomach, if this keeps up. He  _ needs _ fresh air. Needs to just get some air, before he really will throw up. 

So Yakov feels around for the doorknob in the near-complete dark, and ever so carefully opens it to a crack; just widens it to a small slit. Cold air hits his face, washing away that sickening stench. Calming him; allowing breath. But.., while he’s here.. Yakov just needs to know. If he can see them coming towards him, unaware, If he really will catch a picture of that image in his head. If he does, at least Yakov can know for sure. That they are in love. That he is nothing but an unwanted third wheel to them. He needs to know.

But as soon as he does... One moment, he’s peeking out onto the empty concrete square, the next there’s a soldier only paces removed. “Are you lost, comrade?” 

Yakov nearly jumps out of his skin. Tries to close the door, in some silly reflex. Which is pointless. The soldier bangs it right back against Yakov, flinging him backwards. Then strides in, in his dark uniform, an AK rifle hanging from his shoulders. His partner materializes right behind him, his own automatic in hand. “Strange place for a stroll, comrade. Very much off limits.” The first one postures, pleased and not a little smug. He gestures towards the door, though Yakov doesn’t doubt the pair would not mind grabbing him and dragging him off bodily. “Perhaps you will explain this to your General?”

Yakov curses himself a fool all over. But, he lets himself be escorted outside without embarrassing himself. Guts churning again, now with a different fear. He walks with them, fighting to not crane his neck left and right, trying to spot Nikita. But, he already knows he will not. Why would Nikita bother with him, after he’s rescued his love? With the choice between saving him from the lion’s den itself and saving beautiful, young Angelica only a mad-man would even waver. Yakov supposes there’s a kind of poetic justice in that. If Nikita and Angelica make it out of here, and he is caught and punished for it..- oh, there will be punishment, Yakov knows..

“ ‘Scuse me gentlemen. Do any of you have a light?” Yakov starts at the familiar voice behind him. Breath catching in wonder and amazement. Because he’d already thought he’d had his last chance to stare into those wonderful dancing blue eyes. The slightly skewed way he wears the uniform’s hat. Was already counting on having to suffer through his last, tortured hours on the memory of  _ him _ .

The soldiers too, seem confused by the sudden appearance of a fourth party. Nikita just smiles, hands in pockets and a lazy cigarette between his lips. “Can’t seem to find mine. My  _ lighter _ ?”

The first soldier finally moves, one hand leaving the automatic hanging from his neck to fish inside his pocket “And what are  _ you _ doing out, Comrade Nikita? Not another doctor appointment?”

Nikita laughs, then takes a long drag, before taking the stick into his real hand and offering. “Bloody doctors are trying to bleed me out. But no; not tonight. Tonight, I’m thinking I’ll go out a bit. If that’s alright.”

There’s a confused look between the two soldiers that is apparently long enough for Nikita. He grabs the front soldier’s face, and smacks his head right into the second soldier so hard the pair both crumble to the floor. “Not alright? Too bad.”

They both crumble to the ground immediately. Soundlessly and still. Nikita just grunts. “I think they already know we’re on the move. Back to the truck; we’ll come back for Angelica later.”

Yakov is putting on a seatbelt when the shooting starts; a stray bullet that cannot be anywhere close. Yakov still ducks, if only because Nikita seems to be doing the same. He’s not; he’s pulling out the truck’s wiring from under the dashboard. “Couldn’t you have started it before?” he asks, sounding only mildly annoyed.

“I don’t know how to short wire a car!” Yakov yells, already panicking. The only thing keeping him in some semblance of control is that Nikita, right next to him, seems perfectly calm. He just hums, sounding mildly confused that Yakov would not have had a crash-course in car-theft during his training, and then the engine starts turning, their cabin lighting up.

Nikita floors it; truck roaring, speeding right into a group of incoming soldiers. They scatter, just barely getting away with their lives. Another few loud bangs, and the glass window scatters, right in front of Yakov. Nikita has his prosthetic up though, right in front of Yakov’s face. It makes a few chiming pling-pling-pling noises, then comes down again, a few wires sticking out and buzzing from loose electric currents. “Did you just.. deflect bullets?!” Yakov yells, then gives up and just holds on as they make another sharp turn.

“There’s the gate.” Nikita informs him, still perfectly calm. And Yakov blinks to at least see through the cracked windshield. All he can focus on is the three bullet holes right in front of his face, before there’s a hard wack-thunk. “Bye gate,” the voice next to him monologues. 

There’s a minute of just engine roaring, and the sun in their eyes as they speed along the empty road in the nar-dark. Yakov blinks, looks to the side, at the near dark. Then turns around, looks behind him, though the empty cargo bed, out through the open hatch behind. There’s nothing out there, but an empty horizon. “ we.. made it?” 

Nikita grunts. “Hard part will be getting out of the country undetected. But yeah, I think we got it. Going back for your wife though.” Still, he throws Yakov a crooked smile as he says it; and somehow that makes it all okay. Yakov snorts, then dissolves into giggles; nervous energy driving him up to hysterical tears. “ we made it. I thought we were going to die, but Party’s mercy! We made it!” 

Nikita stares at him and grins wide. All cocky and self assured and amazing; one eyebrow raised in that way that says ‘how could you even doubt me?’ 

And then his mouth explodes. 


	8. caught

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “No.” Yakov turns, hands hovering for a moment, ”no-no-no,’ then, at a loss, he cups the pieces, tries to push them back. Heavy blood pulses against his hands, but he holds. He thinks he holds; his hands a dam against the blood. “Help!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW:  
> grafic depictions of violence.   
> emotional manipuiation.

There’s a tone in his ears, high and insistent. Yakov sits blinking at red, wondering at that tone. Then, his eyes focus. Someone next to him.. Nikita next to him. No, but he looks like a ghoul from a horror film. He.. he has no jaw. There’s nothing there. No, wait. There, hanging loose from one side; that must have been his jaw. There’s teeth hanging from it. At least.

Yakov stares, confused, still. Blinks, sick coming back. Until, that still form blinks back at him. And, that wakes Yakov from his stupor. “No.” he turns, hands hovering for a moment, ”no-no-no,’ then, at a loss, he cups the pieces, tries to push them back. Heavy blood pulses against his hands, but he holds. He thinks he holds; his hands a dam against the blood. “Help!”

Yakov gasps short hitch breaths; but Nikita doesn’t seem to be breathing at all. But.. but he’s been shot before. This is nothing. He wants to tell himself this is nothing. And yet, it’s so different. Yakov looks around wild, trying to see where the bullet came from. Behind perhaps? But even then, no. that can’t be right. A convoy is heading their way, but it wasn’t there before. There is no new bullet. Nikita was..  _ not _ shot. He got exploded. But how?

Yakov sits there, reeling in inertia, but ultimately holds Nikita’s jaw till both doors are opened and they are pried apart. At least the parts of Nikita seem to stick back to their approximate place as they lay him out on the ground. Yakov gets wrestled over to the general; his fucking nephew. That bastard Vasily. “What did you do?!” Yakov half-growls, half-cries when he sees him.

Vasily waves a hand, looking near-jubilant. “Remote trigger. I’d have preferred good old cyanide, but really, I didn’t want to chance him not noticing.”

“You sick asshole!” Yakov nearly manages to wrench himself free; to throw himself at his nephew. The soldiers hold on though, while Vasily gives him a mock-impressed bow, arms wide. Yakov growls.

Someone growls back. And that, that makes everyone turn. Back to the body on the ground. Nikita.. Twitches.. Then his back arches off the ground, limbs flailing. It’s impressive; scary. Wrong. But, if Yakov was hoping Nikita would be getting up to murder his captors.. No. all he does is confulse. “Get him to medical, quick.” Vasily grouses, obviously worried.

And Yakov.. Yakov can feel the fight drain out. He lets himself be escorted to a cell, where he is dumped and ceremoniously forgotten about. For, he doesn’t even know how long. At least three weeks, before someone comes to talk to him. 

Three weeks, alone, with a single meal a day shoved through a slot. There’s a hole in the floor to do his business, and a single tap with running water at least. But still, the stench of the place is numbing. Must be getting worse. And Yakov without a change of clothes nor a decent way to get clean. 

Well, there’s a small measure of revenge in how  _ cousin Vas _ wrinkles his nose when he eventually comes to visit. With difficulty, Yakov raises himself from the cot he’d been sitting on, croaks with a voice thin from disuse: “Where is Nikita? What have you done to him?”

“Nikita is dead.” General Vasily frowns, a quick glance around the room, then snaps his fingers for the guards outside the door. “We are starting a  _ new iteration, _ ” he throws Yakov’s way; just in time before the old man collapses. It catches Yakov just in time. A bouyo to grab on to. The meaning near too hard for him to comprehend. Yet. new iteration; a new personality? Yet, that means Nikita, whatever he’ll be called,  _ still lived _ .” 

“He will be Boris now.” Vasily smiles, gestures at the table, only just brought in by his soldiers. “But, before that. I’d like to read you some reports.” The younger man sits down on his chair, just as a second one is brought in for Yakov; placed on his side of the table. Yakov sinks into it thankfully, too drained to even mind he’s been bereft of these simple comforts exactly due to this man.

“ How..,” Yakov swallows, tears prickling again. Though he’d thought himself dry by now. “How is he..” 

“Healed, Uncle. Like always. Now, I’m going to start with a little excerpt from the doctor that had been traveling with your party when you found our American first.” A rustling of papers, as Yakov wonders what the point of this exercise is; why they are doing this. He is, still, too drained and empty to care. Vasily clears his voice, and dictates: “There’s a bit of technical details about Bakushka’s state upon finding him. Then he says:  _ I have to reiterate that though I wholly support acquiring any resources for our beloved MotherLand, I will for one last time object to keeping the specimen alive.’”  _

“ What?” Yakov had never read this particular report from his doctor. And, he’d trusted the man. To a degree. At least so far as that he’d trusted him not to apostatize him in front of command. What was this to be? His _ trial? _

Vasily continues right over him, unpretumed. “If said subject ever learned anything about the processes used on him, that information would certainly be destroyed by putting two bullets into his head. As for his own usefulness in the future, I know from first hand that this form of damage is not healed. I also know, first hand, from other camp survivors, it would be  _ kinder to put him down _ .” 

_ Kinder.. _ The way Vasily stressees this, that nasty grin. “Why.. Why are you telling me this? Why now..?” faltering, he stops; because Yakov already knows what Vasily puts into words now.

“Oh, come now. You _ knew  _ his stance. Didn’t you make a bet with this man? A bet that your American would still be alive the next day, even without care. And when this doctor lost that bet, he kept his side and went against his own codes of practice and saved Bakushka. Didn’t he? Oh, and an amazing recovery he did make! This doctor was so very wrong. What a fool. But, you knew that, didn’t you? Knew you had gold in your hands. And you took  _ good  _ care of it. I know you made damn sure any of his attempts to contact anyone from home failed.

“I.. I didn’t.” Yakov denies. “ they.. Nobody wanted him back. Nobody knew anyone. I just..” it’s not fair. Yakov had just made it obvious to Bakushka how much trouble it would be to try and return home. How much better staying with Yakov would be.. “I just.. He was wanted here. We’d care for him here. I could provide far better care..” 

A smacked hand, onto the folders, one hand pointing, Vasily bites out, “Yes! Exactly.” animatedly, he grabs a different folder. “Let’s see what  _ you _ said about that. This entire report ‘46? By your hand. Liquid gold...

_ “To high Command,  _

_ “I want to officially advise against the suggested disciplinary actions against Agent ‘the American’. _

_ “First of all, there is no need to reschedule the pipelined missions. The prosthetic arm might have not been a success, but he is as strong as ten hale men regardless. His disability will not be a hindrance in our infiltrations, but might provide a good cover instead.  _

_ “Secondly, Bakushka, or the American, is not to blame for the incidents in the lab. If anyone is to be held accountable, I would say it should be the doctors that knew their work was being violently rejected by their patient’s body, yet ignored the infections and accompanying fevers…” _

“That’s not..” Yakov tries to stall. Yes, he wrote this piece himself. Still supports what it says, mostly. But. “Look, there were disciplinary measures coming his way. I was just trying to..” 

“ Yes, Uncle.” Vasily adopts aslow, long-suffering tone, “we all know you let a pretty face cloud your judgement too easily. Now:  __

_ “Thirdly, Bakushka has been nothing but sympathetic to our cause, and will remain so, as long as we frame our requests right. Likely the infection from the arm was causing his erratic moods, and now again he is easily managed. Threats and force however are likely to have an opposing effect.”  _

“Stop.” Yakov pleads; he is so, so very tired. “ I was just.. The system _ works _ . I have had many documented cases of my success.” 

Vasily speaks in a drowning monotone:  _ “Finally, my rewards system has worked on all my charges, and there has been no indication that Bakushka would be an exception. Even while on high fever, giving or withholding touch have kept him on a nearly bloodless track…’”  _

And Vasily sighs, slow, rubbing the bridge of his nose, feigning exhaustion  _ “ _ Oh, I  **know** Yakov. I  _ know _ the track record of your success. Some of the most merited operatives were shaped by your hand. And, as far as I’ve been able to find, you only ever gave in to temptation with that Danska kid.” 

“He was not..” Yakov tries, though. Even without Vasily speaking over him. Even with his nephew giving him space. Room and time to frame what Danska was not.. Yakov cannot finish that sentence. 

Because, at one time, Danska had been his  _ everything.. _

Yes; like Nikita. The evidence is damning; terrible. But, at this point, Yakov is far beyond caring; even about the firing squad that no doubt awaits him. “It’s no secret. I  _ loved  _ him. And,..” There’s still a sliver of fear, in admitting this to a tribunal of his judge and jury. But, it’s nothing Vasily didn’t already know. “And I love Nikita.” Yes; this is right. There’s a weight lifted off of him, just by saying the words. Let him speak his mind, and be judged. Yakov doesn’t care. “ I’ll love him regardless of what name you give him.” 

Vasily, to Yakov’s utter confusion, smiles wide. “Wonderfull!” 

“ I..” Yakov frowns, blinks at the general that sits there, arms wide, still with that rare, smug smile on his face. Utterly perplexed, Yakov tries to put into words what he feels. “I don’t..”

Vasily is done with letting him speak; again just waltzes right over his uncle’s words. “You see, I owe you one. You caught him for us.  _ You  _ showed us his worth. And, ultimately, you found us a way to harness all that power.” that grin turns nasty again, and Yakov feels the weight of accusation, barely hidden. Any feeling of freedom, any feeling of justice subsequently squashed under that heavy rock of guit:  _ you were the one that betrayed him first. You used him first; if he’s lost his freedom, then you are to blame. _

“So, consider this a thank you, from me, to you.” Yakov throws him a thin manilla folder; lets it fall open with the writing Yakov’s way up. “His name is Boris now. Here is his file.”

Yakov looks down at the file. Two pages of history; all of them lies.  _ Slander. _ And, Yakov’s own name is in there, as... “No..” 

Yakov breathes, suddenly wishing for that firing squad to please end this. Please, just _ end _ him. “No. How  _ could  _ you..?”

“This is the official story, uncle. This is the story you are going to feed him.” Vasily grins wickedly, an angry, evil thing. “And,next time your conscience makes you confess?.. I am  _ not _ shooting him.” Vasily grunts to himself. “I am shooting  _ you _ . I am shooting your wife. And, Boris? Boris will only  _ wish _ he was shot.”


	9. dance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angelica doesn't mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> big one guys. used to be two, but I wanted to keep moving along. hope that doesn't make it too convoluted?  
> Tw: dubious consent.

Angelica had simply never expected to play second fiddle to a man.

She doesn’t mind, per say. It’s a welcome change actually. To the coveting gazes and the grasping hands she’s come to expect; grown used to. An oddity, to find the man she married the first not to look at her like a prize to be acquired or a wild beast to be tamed.

She just hadn’t expected it. Sure, when the doctors pronounced her barren her mother had cried and worried. Without the ability to produce an heir her chances of a decent marriage were nill.

But Angelica had already lost her soul to the ballet by then. And she’d already experienced the hungry gazes of men, following her through the room. The envious glances of all the girls. She had not worried; no. She had known her true calling. Angelica didn’t worry about dying alone and unwanted, because the future right ahead of her was one in the spotlight. Front and center stage. She would become a legend, and steal everyone’s hearts: -men, women, even the critics. Who would want to be snatched up and stashed away in some country house to pop out children, when fame called her name?

And perhaps, when she started, Angelica had had dreams of building a family _ and _ a career. But she had realised quite soon that that was never possible. A woman was either a career, or a wife. Never both. And, if she failed to get pregnant on her first lay? On the second, on the third and with the fourth man? It had been a  _ blessing _ . She pursued her dancing in all earnesty, and used her grace and beauty like a weapon. A sable, clearing her path to the top. Climbed the steps to the crest, so she could shine as a prima ballerina.

And; oh, how she had  _ shone _ .

And then, she had fallen.

The reasons why still lay heavily upon her. She had known, that day before the performance, that she was not in her best shape. That she had been  _ hurting. _ But she hadn’t dared pass; hadn’t dared draw attention to herself. And, god knows, she was depressed enough not to care. If she’d only died in that fall, she would have at least been together with the only boy to ever steal her heart. 

Or, perhaps she’s being melodramatic. Perhaps she loved Andrick more in hindsight; because they would never be again. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, after all.

Regardless, she  _ did _ fall. It didn’t kill her. But, it was close enough that she would not dance again. And a marriage had become her only option.

Angelica had gotten lucky, truely. Yakov was not a perfect man. But he’d left her her freedom. Her own time and hobbies. He had always supported her, though mostly through indifference. When she’d expressed interest in teaching the young orphans at base dancing; those who had become fatherless in that terrible winter of ‘51-’52, he had even arranged them a space. Still, their marriage was one of convenience; not love. Because Yakov might not dislike women in general, he most certainly was  _ not _ attracted to them.

So, perhaps she should have seen it coming; Yakov had been honest enough on why he needed to get married. And she, in turn, had been truthful as well. They'd had a good laugh about it, actually. As a barren wife, her only redeeming feature was her beauty. Yet her husband only recognised beauty in  _ other men. _

Then again, the one Yakov had fallen for wasn’t a _ man _ either. Possibly not even human. Why, Angelica had seen him  _ dead. _ Twice now. Once, a moving, frozen thing. She’d stood at Yakov’s side as he cried like the weak woman she’d been accused of being too often. She’d witness the beebs of the machines; cataloguing a heartbeat too slow for any mammal she’d heard of. She’d noticed the way the veins in his arm had stood out, blood still frozen in his arteries. And she’d known, this man had died. Was  _ still _ dead.

But still walking. Had walked right back to base. From somewhere out there, in the snow, where the rest of the troops had died. Where they all had found a grave in a snowbank. But not the American; no, he’d laid there with his comrades, dead to the world for sure but not truly gone. And come spring, he’d just gotten up, ripped loose the prosthetic caught deep in ice, and come back to them.

It hadn’t really hit her before. Sure, she’d heard Yakov had found him originally with two slugs in his head. She’d know that when Yakov had gone for help to Cousin Vas - which, she had  _ warned _ him not to do, damn it- that Vasily had used a classic execution shot on this.. this creature.

And yet, of course,  _ he _ was still here. Still alive.

But this time; this second time she witnesses is somehow worse. General Vasily had exploded his _mouth;_ remote-detonated an upper molar and blown out the core of his hinterbrain _.._ _That_ definitely deleted any lingering doubts she might have had; about the nature of this beast. And she has a front row seat, as he knits himself back together with very little help from outside. 

Doctors check, look him over. Write in their charts and discuss at length. But, for all Angelica can see, it’s all him; some power inside of him that melds his face back together within  _ days. _ From a swollen, abhorrent hole of flesh held together by little more than staples, back to a mouth, lips. A jaw; chin.. all exactly as they were before. The teeth take longer. Only start to come in after three weeks, when the doctors are already proclaiming the rest of him hale. And Angelica is just.. The inhumane, impossibility of it is part revolting, part upsetting, and part.. a wonder to behold. 

It is the first time Angelica can actually see what Yakov saw: that his American was amazing; that he is  _ beautiful _ . 

And that was probably because this is the first time he’d  _ shut up _ . The first time he didn't try and charm her with his boorish unoriginal come-ons. The first time he didn’t question her every order because he knew better; because he was the soldier around here; the guy with experience, and ‘ _ no-it’s-not-because-you’re-a-woman-but-this-isn’t-a-dance-class, ya know..?’ _

Because, damn if Nikita hadn’t known  _ everything  _ better. Damn if he didn’t try and protect her every bloody time. 

Like she was some inexperienced maiden. Like she hadn’t operated in the resistance, damn him! Like her dance-troupe hadn’t smuggled wares and info at the risk of their lives. Like her poor, brave Andrick hadn’t died for it. 

_ Like Angelica _ hadn’t nearly died for it, herself. 

Well, she  _ hadn’t _ died for it. And, Angelica wasn’t  _ proud _ of how she’d survived. But, at least she  _ had  _ survived. Her mother had taught her well, after all. Angelica had lived to fight again; a worthy feat. If one wasn’t like  _ Nikita _ and just grew their face back after making a fatal mistake, that is... 

Well, regardless, Angelica was still here. A little broken, a lot less naive. But still alive. And still stuck under the heel of powerful men.

In this, they are three of a kind, and Angelica emphasizes. Yakov wasn’t a bad man. Useless and weak, yes. Still, she liked him far better than she could ever stand someone like Vasily. Because to people like him, she, Yakov and even Nikita-now-Boris were but tools. Resources to be harnessed and used to increase his power, without even a thought for their suffering. And yes, Angelica can admit that she feels it’s at least partially Yakov’s fault. When she had explained to him what kind of man his nephew was. The kind you did not want to have any power over you.

As for Nikita.. Well, he is no more, was he? It was more apt to say Boris bore the brunt of that mistake. And if Nikita, with his easy swagger and constant commentary had driven her to despair, Boris is easier on her sensibilities. Even if, objectively, she knew they were the same person. Even if her first reaction, upon learning the two had tried to elope; had left her here to rot, when she had followed Yakov here like a good wife.. Well, even if her first reaction had been:  _ good! fucking choke in it. _

Still, that was well over a month ago now. A month of Yakov left in isolated captivity. And Angelica has some ideas of what that can do to a person: to be left alone with nothing but your own mind for company. She knows it will eventually drive even the most stable, strongest man insane. And, she is worried for him. Truely. Because Yakov was never that strong to begin with. 

Boris however. Boris she  _ knows _ is fucked. As soon as he is healed enough to walk, Vasily has him dragged off to one of his new testing labs. Angelica doesn’t know exactly what goes on in there, apart that they have him in some standing restraints, and Vasily visits once a week to rehearse with ‘Boris’ his new identity.

Now, Angelica thinks Vasily is a man with next to no talents of his own. But, he certainly knows how to make use of those of others; and, he is smart enough to bind people to himself. An emotional manipulator Angelica has to harbor some form of respect for, if only the healthy kind one has for a viper. Vasily’s ingenuity shows in Boris’s new backstory. A story everyone on base should learn, and Boris needs to be able to recite by heart before he’s set free.

The part about being a convicted felon? Brilliant. 

That he’ d chosen to join this program to get out of his sentence?  _ Very _ smart. 

That this is his punishment for trying to escape, because he was a dangerous criminal. All so damning; so obviously meant to discredit Boris-Nikita’s moral compass. To make him defer to the General; to anyone, but his own inner senses.

And the part about Yakov and Boris eloping? Near true word-for-word, except that Angelica is nearly certain there was no romantic relationship between Nikita and Yakov, before. Not at that time. But suggesting they were a known item? That Angelica had known; that nearly everyone on base had known and that it was condoned here? That part was there to control Yakov.

And when Angelica gets her husband back, or what was left of him, she gets to see first hand how well it works; if Yakov hadn’t already believed his sexual perversity made him a bad person, he definitely does  _ now. _ Because Boris and Nikita? They were different in a way Nikita and Bakushka had never been. 

This is Vasily's final brilliance: Boris is..  _ unsure _ of himself. Unsure of what he knows. Unsure of what is _ right _ . Unsure of what to do, at most times. Aches for direction; for someone -anyone, to explain to him what is right and what is wrong. He is easier to direct; actually listens to orders. Knows and fears the consequences of disobedience. Because, whatever has gone down in that testing lab, Vasily has finally found a way to cow his super-spy. In a way shooting him or threatening him never had. Oh yes; Boris may have forgotten again what happened _ before _ his brains were blown out, after is something he definitely recalls. And, for the first time, there is something the American fears.

Angelica actually prefers that in Boris; thinks it’s an improvement over Bakushka and Nikita and whatever he was before. There is humility in his actions now. Second-guessing instead of assuming. She thinks she could actually stomach Boris; could actually work with a man that has at least an inclining of the experiencing of failure. But to Yakov? Yakov Boris is missing some vital piece of the man he fell in love with, and Yakov blames himself. 

Angelica watches for months, with a kind of sick fascination as that idea; that sickness takes root: Yakov feels he has ruined the man he fell in love with, simply by making that love real. Yakov believes it’s the lie of their relationship that is pulling Boris down. He thinks it’s the evil that is the love between two men that has finally broken his Bakushka. 

That demon breaks Yakov, in a way not even isolation could. And angelica can see him slipping, falling further and further into despair. And though it’s a cycle that leads Angelica from anger at his weakness to incomprehension to callous acceptance, she understands. Yakov drinks himself into a stupor every chance he gets, to forget about reality. He tries to hide from Boris; from his awkward advances and unsure apologies. The lie of Yakov and Boris together stretches her husband thin: a damned-if-you-do, damned-if-you-don’t situation. Boris is convinced Yakov is upset with him when the old man denies him; Yakov is torn from guilt when he lets Boris close. Wracked by the fact that Boris never consented, convinced that his touch is only ruining Boris further.

Yakov is wrong, of course. Angelica knows better. Boris is afraid; afraid of punishment; punishment he is obviously going to recieve. Because that is the price of failure. And failure appears to be Boris's lot in life; what he was born into, and what he can see himself inevitably return to. 

Because their super-spy is no longer as..  _ super  _ as he had been. Oh yes; no matter how clever Vasily thinks he’s been, it seems he’s made a  _ vital  _ mistake; one of damning consequence: Boris’s reflexes are slow; hardly better than an average soldier's. And although his strength has returned, his uncanny fighting ability has not. The American’s aim is no longer true, his hands are not steady. And, although the restart; the regrowing of the entire part of his brain that handles movement has improved the dexterity of his left arm, the rest of him is no longer exceptional.

Two months in, Anglica hears a doctor complain over lunch; he grouses “of course, that’s what you get for blowing his brains out. repeatedly.” and that appears to be the overall assessment by the professionals: permanent brain damage. Or, a second possibility: stunted growth, from Vasily's cruel and unusual punishments. Keeping him immobile for weeks when he’d been recovering. Regardless, the consensus is, Vasily’s ruined him: their Ghost has lost its edge. And management is getting impatient; waiting for their super-spy to be field-ready. Impossible, the doctors agree. He'll never amount to more than a curiosity now. An unkillable man. Nice, in theory. Useless in practise. 

And with the loss of their ghost, everyone on the entire base has become expendable. Stalin had never met failure with forgiveness. His heirs, whomever it will end up to be after his recent passing.. They will not be kinder. Still, there is a power vacuum, with the death of the father to their Motherland. And Vasily plays it like a fiddle.

He starts projects with vast promises, invites important figures and administrators. Cators to them and dangles his previous accomplishments in their faces like promises. Vasily is  _ good _ at stalling; better at negotiations. Instead of losing men and influence, Vasily’s base grows. New barracks and labs are added; the underground bunker expanded.

Yet when winter rolls around, Vasily invites all those high and important men to witness; marches his American out into a snowed over lot in his underwear, and has him buried beneath the ice. Then, he throws the men a party the likes of which no one on base has ever seen before, having them periodically check on their frozen wonder. And, at the end of the week, as the highlight, Vasily has him defrosted, to the amazement of his audience.

Troop morale is up, after. And some fools think this is a sign of the tides turning. Of everything turning out alright. But Angelica isn’t fooled. She’s been on the floor all week, charming the sharks and distracting the piranha’s. Because the men at Yakov’s party were the worst in the lot. Cruel and unforgiving. And Yakov’s play is a show of force, a demonstration of capabilities; yes. But, it is also a last ditch effort. Angelica can tell they will not take his stalling for much longer. 

It only brings home one certainty to Angelica: They are on borrowed time; Angelica can see it. Yakov could see it too, if he could pull his head from the bottle long enough to look. And none of them will be allowed off this sinking ship, if Vasily is disgraced. They will all suffer for Vasily’s unforgivable mistake. For breaking their most prized possession. And though only the General is to blame, Angelica knows enough about men like Vasily; knows that they will all be sent to the Gulag long before it would be his turn.

So, she has bigger worries than her husband’s wandering eyes. Bigger fish to fry, if she means to live. But, should she really be surprised that her husband’s addled mind would keep him on the straight and narrow? Had she expected Boris, who believes every word that he’s been fed would put a stop to Yakov’s adfances? It was inevitable, really. Yakov never was one to keep his hands to himself.

At any rate, when she comes home to find her husband and Boris together. Yakov, with his hands on Boris’s face, kneading like he’s trying to put him back to what he was, before. Looking down at the man on his couch with the kind of intimate sadness and sexual longing fueled by wodka and despair.. And Boris with that look of wide-eyed acceptance that means he has no idea what’s going on beyond that he thinks this is probably right.

Well. she just tells them: “never mind me,” picks up her purse and goes to visit the library.

It was.. an actual crime, this love of theirs. To think if them together was disheartening, a blow to her ego but... 

But, well. It was just  _ pathetic _ , Angelica cannot find it in herself to kick a man when he’s down. And Yakov has been losing himself, one alcohol infused night at the time. And, though she was mad at him at first; though she raged at him and explained to him the truth of it..she’s already given up that fight. And now, to watch him spiral and spiral further, caught between guilt and fear and the kind of doomed love that Angelica did, in some respects, understand. Well. she cannot add to that pain.

So, instead, Angelica throws herself at teaching. Puts her small class through their paces with a demanding tone and a reckless claim to perfection. Makes them stay late, longer. It’s not like these girls have anything else to do. Yet, as she sits, tapping the walking cane she can no longer do without to the floor to set the rhythm, looks at her girls near-lost in the droning repetitions, Angelica has an  _ idea. _

The idea is one of a magnitude that could save her life. Save  _ all  _ of their lives. Because, _ is _ Boris actually damaged physically? Angelica isn’t so sure; because she’d come to believe the American is gifted with a body that will simply let him carry on regardless of what’s done to it. Return to the kind of blank slate that will tackle anything thrown at it. Surviving; And yes, she too has seen that he has not been improving. That his aim was only getting worse, his fighting stiff and panicky. But. What if the nature of that short-coming is not one in his body, but in his mind..? 

Perhaps that was the true nature of Vasily’s mistake; Perhaps Yakov, in his pathetic, drunk rages, had the truth of it. Perhaps the taming of that unquenchable spirit had been exactly what quenched it. Perhaps fighting and shooting and all the other skills Boris now failed at; perhaps they were more like dancing that she had realized before.

Take Ivanka, for instance. Yes; a girl of sixteen, that still dances like a scare-crow. But, there’s no real reason for her to. Angelica has seen her walk. There’s nothing  _ physically _ wrong with her. Yet, she gets tenser with every word from Angelica; with every warning. Every time Angelica tells the girl to relax, she does the exact opposite. Everytime she tells her to be graceful, Ivanka tumbles.

So Angelica sits there, tapping her stick, calling out corrections, and thinks.. How does one dance?  _ Really _ dance? Not that stiff, moving like a puppet Ivanka is demonstrating now. No, the way Angelica herself used to shine? What is Ivanka missing that she had that some of the other girls in class show, but do not possess in that same, breath-taking force that had ruled Angelica’s life for so long? The thing that made heads turn, men’s breath stutter.. Stutter with..

Angelica calls them to a stop, and resolutely leaves the walking cane at her chair. She does not know nor care what has made Ivanka fear a corrective slap, because that’s all Angelica’s ever done. Perhaps Ivanka has had too many beatings as a child. Perhaps she is simply weaker and more fearful than other girls. 

Still, fear is the last thing Angelica needs from her. No; Angelica needs the exact opposite. So, she gets behind Ivanka. This time Angelica corrects her stance with gentle care. Whispers into her ear, the words she needed to hear. Ignores the girl’s half flinch and caresses her cheek. And watches, that little miracle, as the girl dances, like she’s never danced before. 

Could it be the same way for Boris? He tenses in the same way when reprimanded; gets progressively worse even when threatened with a trip to that research lab.

If that’s all there is to it..

After her class, Angelica visits General Vasily’s office, and assures him she can fix his super-spy. All she needs is a year of free reight; a year away.

She doesn’t get it. 

“Six months,” Vasily tells her when their plane touches down.

The Russian countryside is barren. Dry rock and a few sad spurts of growth. The Base is little more: grey on grey, oversized and imposing. Like all Communist architecture. Still, there’s no snow. The soft, dry weather is already a balm to her ankle... Angelica loves it.

They walk slowly, arms looped; Yakov between her and Boris. Though Boris seems distracted. He should be helping carry her husband’s weight. A near-dead weight, from the amount of alcohol he had consumed in-flight. Still, she lets him for now; reminds herself that this, to Boris, is all he’s ever seen from the world except their Siberian base and it’s white, awful hills.

Angelica needs to be kind...

It will not come naturally, she knows. Yet, she will try. She is a hard woman, wrought of iron and discipline and pain.. Yet, she should not  _ push _ that on others. Try not to, at least. So, instead she indulges, tries a smile as her six girls follow her out, as amazed and caught off-guard as Boris was. Well; they have hardly had a kinder life. Perhaps here, for a while...

“My protegée, Commander Lukin will oversee the day-to-day. If you can get our American back on track within the allotted time. Well,.. we will see. Show me what you can do.” Vasily smiles; kind and indulgent. Like he’s giving her a chance. Like this is not his last life-line. His own desperate play. “Well, I have some other projects to run. Will be back to check on progress. soon.”

Angelica smiles back; preening from the praise. Like she hadn’t just been threatened and talked down to. “I won’t let you down.”

Though, as soon as the General returns back on board his plane, she can feel her smile slipping. “Boris, take my husband to his new room. He is tired.”

She hands her husband over carefully. Like he’s valuable and breakable. Which, honestly, he is now. Because what does one need, to be able to dance?

One needs _ love. _

Not love for another. Angelica isn’t even sure if she’s ever experienced that. Ever felt like she’d give her all for someone other than herself. No, what one needs is to  _ feel _ loved. And Yakov? For all his failings, that is the one thing he seems to do without trouble. Being loved will make Boris believe he is still worthy. Will give him the feeling he can be redeemed. This is what Boris will need to be pulled out of his own fear. And it’s the one thing Yakov does _ so much better than her. _

Because making Boris feel loved? It is Vasily’s second mistake. One that Angelica very much hopes she can exploit. Yakov may be twisted enough to believe it is his love that has taken Boris’s righteousness, Angelica knows better. Vasily may have reasoned that as long as Boris is dependent on Yakov, and Yakov is his, mind, body and soul, there will be no chance of the pair betraying him. But, Yakov has already escaped his nephew; hasn’t he? In mind, by fleeing into the bottle. And now, physically, he is away from him as well.

And Angelica still isn’t sure she’d pick that battle; doesn’t want the headache of trying to pull Vasily down, when she knows it’ll only cost her, and he’ll be replaced by another face; another man, just as bad or worse. No; Angelica considers, as she changes into her dancing outfit and tapes up her feet and ankle. Fighting him will not be worth her while. But, she has got them off that sinking ship. She’ll find a way to spend her days here. Here, she might even dance again; of only a little. No.. she  _ definitely  _ will. Without the constant cold hurting her; worsening her, and with a partner for support, she will do it.

Her Girls are already thankful to Angelica; flock around and wait for her orders till she throws them out of the dance studio and tells them to go settle in. Boris too, when he comes back, gives her a weak, unsure smile. And Yakov? He’ll be thanking her and crying himself to sleep when he sobers up enough to know where he is. 

Angelica is nearly sure, she can talk Yakov around. If not with reason, than with more alcohol. Give up on this foolish notion that he is not good enough for Boris. That he is doing anything wrong. And with that, and her teaching, Boris will learn how to soar. 

How to  _ dance. _

And the three of them will  _ survive _ . Like the American does; like she always does.

Yes; Angelica had never expected to play second fiddle to a man. But, she doesn’t mind, exactly. 


	10. ballet

_ Concentration... _

Heels together, feet in a perfect line, boxed points of her ballet shoes straight out. Right hand on the barre, loosely; while her mind screams: wrong side. Left arm on ‘bra bas’; extended downwards with a subtle gracious curl. Complete silence, but for the sound of her breath, the subtle crack from the leather of her pointe shoes, still flat, heels firmly on the floor.

And down, two.. three. Just a half plie. Nothing fancy. Hold. hold. Up again, extending the arm at the same time. Graciously, almost loosely. Make it look effortless…

The Dance studio is hers again. Her five girls she’d set on their way, off for the afternoon. Because she’s supposed to be working on more important matters right now. Five girls, because her eldest has returned to Siberia. To her beau, some soldier she’d never have given a second look if not for knowing what he’d taken from her. But, she was the eldest. So Angelica supposed it was bound to happen. A girl of twenty-five has waited long enough according to society. 

Tovia, however.. Tovia she’s worried about. The girl is barely sixteen. And, if she’s guessed right, no longer a virgin. She supposes she should have expected as much. A base full of men. Strange, new men. Not like in Siberia, the comrades of their fathers; the men they grew up with. Angelica can only hope she’s put a stop to it in time. Hope that Tovia won’t start showing a curve in her belly in the coming months. Because if she does, that soldier is going to marry the girl. And yes; he is going to think of it as his duty. As doing her a service. But, in the end, it will be Tovia that loses out the most. It would be a true loss; Tovia has always been Angelica’s favourite. The most talented. Her most prized student.

Now, gracious turn of the head, one blond curl licking her neck, already wet with perspiration. And that is soon; too soon. To second position, by sliding the right foot out. Carefully. Slowly. Don’t flinch. dont.. Down again; plie, let the arm fall down as well. Adagio; slowly. Do-not squeeze. Hold, two-three. And up, adagio. Left arm, coming up together. Hand on the barre  _ —damn it! Angelina, don’t push on it. Don’t tense. easy. _

The reprimand sounds like her old teacher, but now, alone. She can take a moment, re-collect herself. Take her fingers off the barre and make a fist. Weight fully on her left, as she shakes her hand, loosens her shoulder. Now..

Breathing out, she fortifies herself. Now. relax. Loose. Graciously. Stretch, down. Reach, reach. Long. and down.. Plie. and up. Now. up. Up. 

_ En pointe. _

Her ankle  _ flares _ . And she knows her weight is badly divided —at least sixty-forty to the left; she favours her right ankle badly. Ruining her posture. Destroying the image. Perspiration rolls down her back, in the inside of her black leathard. Breaths measured but too fast, her body fighting her every inch. But, she’s up. She is standing en pointe. Even if her right leg refuses to make a perfect straight line; even if it's crooked, forced: she’s  _ up. _

Now, breathe. Two-three. And plie…

_ “Don’t!” _

Angelica grabs both hands to the barre, falls against it, shoulder hitting the mirrored wall. Her left good ankle catching her as the right takes that moment of distraction to quit on her. To slide and falter. And, even that, even sliding off it hurts. Like bones grinding together with pebbles stuck in between. She takes a deep breath, turns on him; just in time, warning him back with a glare. Biting at him, an angry: “ _ you are late. _ ” 

Boris, hands already hovering over her, has the decency to fall back. At least he knows to look down, chastised. Though the way his hands raised in mock surrender bites at her. The frill of his hair near hiding his eyes as he turns, giving her space. His cut is well past regulations again, and Angelica will need to have that fixed. 

“Sorry,” with a careful blink back up at her. 

Angelica takes her time to compose herself, leaning on the barre just loosely enough to not be obviously taken the weight off of her right ankle. Now that she’s stopped dancing; stopped trying to fly, to fight gravity and this shackle that is her ruined ankle, it flares louder; harder; if anything. Indignant that she would ask such a thing. It makes her cranky, but Angelica raises her chin and puts on that smile. In ballet, one always smiles. Especially when in pain. “Well, don’t be surprised if I practice my dancing on my own if you do not show. —No-no.” she wards him off when he tries to get behind her; tries to take his position and hold her waist. 

Instead, she steps away, gracefully and careful, “first you need to warm up.” A gesture towards her vacated spot. Offering; giving. He, of course, still doesn’t quite appreciate this gift she’s giving. The one thing she’s ever loved, sharing it.. Well. men are stupid like that and he.. is  _ very _ stupid, whatever else he might be. When he moves over it’s too stiffly, too self-consciously. Like this is their first lesson. Like they haven’t done this day in, day out for months now.

“Let me see the steps. First position. heels together; toes wider.” She doesn’t even wait. Already knows Boris would go for a simple V, when she wants those toes sticking out at a perpendicular angle. Boris is lazy, in these basics, after all. Worse than her worst of girls. There’s a slight frown on him again; the one that means he doesn’t see the point. Doesn’t understand why he has to do this.

But at least he’s not moaning and sighing like she’d expected Nikita would have. At least he’ll do as told. Still, “Do not try me. You are no beginner; you _ cannot _ be a beginner, Boris. Bras bas.” which means arms long; loose. Gracious and a delicate curl. With his left on the barre, this should be easy. And yet, he is still too stiff for her liking. Too tense. Plies, through the form, just a little too quickly; holding too still when he should flow. Feet moving to second, to third just a little too fast to be gracious.

But, she thinks he looks better, overall. Ballet suits him. Perhaps Boris has again lost some of the bulk he had added in spring. Again any hint of fat drained from him like she’d come to expect him to look near the end of winter. But, there’s a tanny strenght to his arm, to the line of his clavicle visible over the wide neck-line of a sleeveless shirt loose on his form. It is not the half-starved high cheekbones, but more an overall frugality. “Watch the knees.”

And the black tights show defined muscles on his calves as he dips for a plie. That is her work, she reminds herself. His thighs remain oversized as always; perhaps even a slight distraction from an otherwise perfect dancer’s body. But the calves are new. And the sleeveless shirt shows two strong, fine shoulders. He’ll still look wide next to her gracious form, but not distractingly so. The work of ballet has changed his body, again. And like a chameleon he’s shed his skin to suit it.

So Angelica reminds herself to be kind. Reminds herself to have mercy. Gives a barely imperceptible nod when she’s convinced herself any more corrections to his form will only confuse him; not improve him. Turns away from him and raises to her pointes. Raises one leg to rest against her other knee. The right; mercifully safe from aggravation for the moment.

And, this is where the magic happens. This is what has made her persevere, even when at times Angelica despaired. Wondered if she’d finally met her match. Finally found a dancer too terribly to be salvaged. Wondered if, perhaps, men really weren’t meant for the ballet. Though she’s had great, wonderful, perfect male partners at one time. But, oh how she’d wondered if those had been the exception proving the rule..

But, this is something Boris can do. He takes her midsection in his real hand, the other only hovering close by carefully, and follows her movements. Looks, with her; left; right. Supports her on the pirouette without coercion. And the tension bleeds away, his face lights up and they are connected; carried, as one.

Boris, it seems, knows dancing at some instinctive level. Understands that it is a discourse, a discussion, a coming together of souls. Although, he does have the annoying habit of trying to take her weight. Trying to spare her right ankle. She hopes to cure him of that, one day. But at least, when he dances with her, his burdens fall away. Like hers do; like they  _ should _ . Dancing is soaring; flying. Dancing is freedom. Ballet is strict and hard, yes. But, it is worth it’s price. Still. “Is my husband giving you grief again?” 

It’s nearly an aside, thrown over a shoulder. But Boris catches it. Though he does not let it stiffen his movements. Doesn’t stop following and coping even the direction of her head. “I think he hates me..”

“Oh, Boris,” Angelica smiles almost wistfully. KIndness is not hard, when one is above it all. Kindness is not hard when one flies; soars. And truth is easy to see, from up here. Easy and beautiful. “He couldn’t hate you if he tried,” though Angelica suspects Yakov _ is _ trying.

How she tires of him sometimes; her husband. How he bores her. Yes, she was indebted to him once, as he took her for his wife. But he, in turn, has his own debt to her. Yet all he does is obsess over Boris and she would be okay with that, if he’d just give Boris what was expected of him. Yet it’s like Yakov doesn’t appreciate at all the chance he’s given. The chance to give love to this creature. And it’s driving Angelica  _ mad. _

Slowly she dips, forward. Then folds, cambre; backwards. Lets Boris carry her.

It’s some form of honesty; some strange breaking of his values that’s ruining her husband; she knows. And yet, she doesn’t understand. He had been the first to recognise the man’s worth. And now, because their government is  _ lying _ to Boris, he suddenly has an attack of conscience? Governments lie. Men of power lie. It is their way. And, when one catches them in a lie, is it not important to at least pretend not to know? Oh, but to Yakov this is shameful, especially to him as a man.

Well, sometimes it is better _ not _ to know. Sometimes even Angelica wishes she could forget all the lies and deceit. She envies Boris, in this. His few experiences; like a child, like he is only a toddler, the few years of life that he remembers still make sense, as there are no experiences for him yet; no knowledge to expose the lies and the rot.

Yes, she wishes for that sometimes: that child’s look at the world: that small window that makes the world look like it makes sense. Like it has a measure of justice. A child’s view, perhaps. She would be happier for it, if not safer. But, she has lost her innocence long since. Boris, however? He’s better off not knowing. 

Small pattering steps. Jump; Batterie; a fluttering of feet with a landing smoothed by his strong arms. Yet still, she cannot help flatten her lips. Barely perceivable, but Boris is privy to her secrets now:. knows that to a ballerina, the smile is her stage mask. The one she should never lets slip.

“I wish you’d at least take something for the pain.” He murmurs, close to secretly into her ear. “They have all sorts of pain meds at the lab. I bet I could get you some.” 

“I can get my own.” she assures him, as she jumps, landing in another weightless arabeske. “But my mother told me not to get hooked to the morphine drips before forty.” Though, that will be by next year; how quickly youth has abandoned her. Cast her aside for the next beauty with graceful long legs, no doubt. She frowns at Boris. “Don’t let them put you on a morphine drip, you hear me?” 

“Whoops.” he tells her, sounding entirely too amused. “Why not?” 

“Are all men this stupid?” Angelica adminishes, dancing circles around him: en pointe; then she holds her position. Then again, why not might be a valid question, for him. What would it do, kill him? She’s come to believe that would be near-impossible. Second position. Pirouette. Again. Pirouette. “Why did you need it anyway?”

And stops. Cold. the look; that look in his eyes. Yes; she is getting to know him too well. Too close, a voice whispers. But still, this is what happens when you dance together. “Boris...” 

He’s caught somewhere, eyes on the wooden floorboards. Frozen. The self-conscious stiffness is back, and on anyone else she’d call his expression distraught. “It’s the arm..” voice barely beyond a whisper, he blushes. “It itches.” 

Angelica blows out a worried breath; drops down from her points and marches right up to take a closer look at his shoulder, right where the three deltoid heads disappear into metal. It’s barely perceptible, but there is a slight rash; red spots. He, of course, is embarrassed by her scrutiny. It may be the macho culture on base, or it may be his nature: this ingrained need to be tougher than a woman has returned full-force. And, he knows Angelica has been hurting. So, when she suffers, he needs to be able to take more. Handle more.

Yet, this is why not-knowing is also dangerous. He doesn’t  _ know _ what she knows. Doesn’t remember the old, first arm. The rash, the infection. The way he went slowly mad. And, the American is dangerous, when he loses control: he is not her husband’s pathetic rage that might end in a few smashed glasses and her out of the house.. No. he is a trained killer. A tiger, with more strength than he even realises. 

“It’s.. Not so bad. But it keeps me awake.” he admits, voice mild and self-conscious.

Angelica tisks; caress his neck with the back of her hand. Warm, a slight sheen of sweat. But no fever; not too hot to be healthy. Yet. “Vasily will be on base next week. He wants an assessment. He wants to see you  _ shoot.”  _ She had only meant to tell him last minute, if at all. It would have been best she had thought, to have him try the guns without even being aware he was being graded. “You will take your drip this week and this week alone.” 

She gives a minimal nod, “..and I shall ask what they can do for my ankle. This is a good deal, you agree?” 

Instead of a handshake or verbal agreement, Boris makes a pained noise. “He is coming  _ already? _ It’s not even six months yet!” And Angelica can see the tension seep back, the fear. “I haven’t  _ touched _ a gun since I got here.” 

Angelica acknowledges that with a tilt of the head, returns to en pointe and brings her arms in bra bas; stretches, arabeske. Brings her arms up slowly. Gracefully. And, he returns to her side naturally. An ingrained reaction from months of repetition. And she can feel it falling away again, as soon as they are joined, his hand on her waist. His tension bleeding away and into her. Her training and strength calming them both, like a until. “And you did not need to. Hold your gun like you hold me. Trust it, direct it. But _ do no _ t carry, do not  _ force _ it.”

It is his biggest mistake, she thinks; to try and carry her weight. Like he doesn’t trust her to take her own. Like his impressive strength can take over for any other lacking. Yet tension is the enemy of grace, of easy movement. Of making it look  _ effortless. _ And, if Angelica knows anything, it is that as long as something looks like it takes effort, one has not mastered it. 

“No offence, Lady.” he whispers again, but with a wry smirk. “But do you even know how to shoot?” 

“I know  _ enough. _ Do you trust me?” she turns her head, sharply towards him.

Boris chews on his lips, hands still on her waist. The metal one hangs a little more heavily as he considers, slowly. Chewing his lip in thought. “..Yes.”

“Then let me take care of it. You will let me know if it gets worse.”  _ when _ it gets worse, she leaves out; her frown strict like a mother’s. “We will  _ not  _ let it get worse. After Vasily gets his results I will press for another solution.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ho, boy! soo much to come. major plot ;)


	11. vodka

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’ll drink to that.” Yakov calls as he lifts the bottle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> added warnings: heavy petting, dubious consent, alcohol abuse.

Yakov sits in the guest room with the curtains drawn, sipping cheap vodka straight from the bottle. It’s midday, and the drape’s material proves scant protection from the sunlight. A cheerful end-of-summer day bustling right outside. Birds cheerp, men banter through their cigarette break. To think there’d be a day he missed Siberia’s near-eternal darkness.

He’s asked Lukin to set him up here for the time being. Angelica might let them back into their private quarters. But, after that last shouting match he doesn’t even want to try. Yakov is angry at her too, you see. And perhaps Angelica has reached her limit; reached that point where she’ll stop pretending with this farce of a marriage of theirs. Well, Yakov wouldn’t care if she did. He just wants to end the _other_ farce.

The one where he’s actually going to be of any use. The one where he pays off his debt to Boris-Nikita..

Oh, Angelica had presented it well. Made a sound argument, reasonable and smart: If Vasily has let them out of sight so easily; if Vasily was _comfortable_ with Boris over two thousand miles away from him, under hers and Yakov’s influence rather than his own.. There were sure to be more safeguards. 

Ways to keep the three of them in line; to keep them from escaping. It was perfectly possible Vasily had the exploding molar replaced with a new one. Or, perhaps something similar, in a different part of Boris? Or, several. Or something completely different. His nephew the General had already proven that he was not worried about hurting Boris; that he’d do just about anything to hang on to him. And Yakov and Angelica? They are expendable.. Hardly worth keeping alive as is. 

The way Angelica had put her argument together was that, if he wanted to do anything for Nikita or Boris, he would need to know what he was up against. Find out what those safe-guards are. Do research. Ask around... _anything._ The way she’d presented it was she would keep them all safe for now, and if Yakov thought he could find them a better way? Then, by all means, she would help. But, she wanted a decent plan. She wanted research done. Intelligence gained. She wanted him to plan it.

She wanted Yakov to gather that intel.

This is the job she’s set him up for, in this partnership that is a marriage. The path she had set him up for; how she had divided their tasks. Yakov, trying to worm himself into the good graces of the men on this new, unknown Russian base. Trying to gather intel, do research; forge alliances. 

Angelica, dancing with Boris.

Now, Yakov can’t say he had a lot of faith in Angelica’s plan for fixing Boris. In her plan of how to ingratiate herself with his asshole nephew and carve them a safe haven. But. Well, he’d never doubted she was anything but the right woman for teaching Boris to dance. And, hey? After seeing them together for five minutes; after seeing Boris smile, like he hardly ever did. At ease; happy, with Angelica in his arms. After seeing their eyes meet, seeing Angelica’s quick glances over the shoulder as she danced, again, like the sensation she was.. Had been..? Well, she had been right hadn’t she? Yakov would not doubt her any longer.

Yet. there’s one person in this arrangement that is not fitted to his allotted task. One who decidedly does not have the required training or disposition or skillset to pull off his duties, and that person is, of course, Yakov. He’s not _fit_ for buttering up to people. Not fit for lying; much as he’s tried to live a lie for so long. Not fit for any form of enjoyable company, it seems. The gloom-cloud that hangs over him wards any soldier or scientist or technician away. Yes; Yakov is old, and tired, and one last shot of vodka away from putting a gun in his own mouth; from ending it all.

Not to mention that anyone with half a brain is wary of his agenda; well aware that Yakov has been branded a traitor; is considered a flight-risk still. And try as he might, he’s hit wall after wall; he’s found no file unguarded; no door unlocked; no one willing to give him even half a chance.

Until _Lukin_. Lukin; the man running this base. Karpov’s protogée; the man with his finger on the pulse. With access to everything; knowledge of every project and operation on base. Lukin had, after only a few drinks and a friendly conversation, all but promised him a way into all he needed to know.

And when he’d told Angelica? When he’d sought her out right away to tell her the good news?  
Well, he had expected her to be a little more thrilled about it, that’s for sure. He had at least expected her to consider this offer. And yes, he understands why she would not want to. He understands that it is awfully convenient. That Lukin is a little too much like cousin Vas to do this out of kindness. That there’s likely some hidden agenda, some game afoot and they’ll just want to use him, more. again. further.

But.. Yakov is just so _tired._ And he’s tried, hasn’t he? Stayed sober weeks at the time. Yakov has worked himself hard as he can. Even in the depths of coming down from alcohol poison. Even when he has to watch Boris and Angelica together, and try to smile while his heart is breaking.

He’s tried his damndest. Tried till he knew he was never going to get anywhere; that he could not try harder. Would not, even if he could. Because the effort is too much; like a mountain weighing down his every waking moment. And he may not be deserving, because this is him throwing away his redemption. His last chance. But right now, he just wants a drink…

Because, just when he’d thought he found a way in; found a window to information, Angelica tells him that window is off limits?

Sometimes he thinks Angelica is just trying to keep him busy; trying to keep his mind occupied so she and Boris can work on their _dancing._ Perhaps, tired of their sham of a marriage, she has found a way to worm herself into the arms of the prettiest man on base. Irrefutable so; because Boris still is that. He’s changed, in these months; yes. But not gotten older; not aged. Just adapted again and fitted into his allotted role like a chameleon, right at home and beautiful so beautiful it hurts to look at him.

Oh, and _there he is._ The man of the hour himself. A knock, then he lets himself in, smiling that weak, wistful way he has now. That’s all wrong, Bakushka was strength, Nikita self-confidence incarnate.. And yet, even with such a wrong smile, he is so, so _perfect_. Yakov takes another gulping swallow of vodka and tries not to let his hands shake. Looks away when Boris stands over him. “Hi. Hey, there you are. Uh, I missed you at the last evaluation.” 

“I can’t today.” he cannot bear it. Cannot bear any of it. Yakov didn’t want to come look at his love and his wife danced together either. Doesn’t want to see them smile at each other. Doesn’t want to see them put their hands on the other. He knows it’s just a performance; just part of the ballet. But it looks so real; Angelica looks so happy. Happier than he’s ever seen her. And Boris? And outside of the ballet? Yakov doesn’t want to see how well Boris does now, on all disciplines, just because he’s _happy_ with her either.

“ Ok,..” Boris somehow gets smaller without moving, his khaki shirt coming loose; seeming larger around him as he continues in a small voice. It’s only now that Yakov takes not of his clothing; green army pants, khaki shirt. Not the dancing outfit he’s usually worn here. A worry clawsh at Yakov’s gut, though he tells himself the dress code must be for his tests. Boris sighs. “Are you.. angry at me again?”

“No..” it’s the truth, though; it’s a lie too, Yakov’s come to realise. He _hates_ Boris, in some twisted way. Hates him for not being Nikita or Bakushka. Because them; even Bucky, had been the same to him. This; this one? Is something else. Still, it’s Yakov he hates. Yakov he blames. Yakov- himself. That fool, that idiot. That‘s at fault here.

“ I.. I love you?” 

“ Don’t say that.” Yakov bites. Not like this; not as a lie. Oh, how he’d longed to hear those words before. Yet, Boris cannot truly mean them, because the choice to love him had been taken from him. Taken from both of them, really. By Vasily. By these lies. Okay, yes. Vasily he hates also. For stealing any chance of Boris ever giving his love willingly. 

Trying to explain _that_ to Boris just makes him more confused. Because he _does_ mean it. Believes he does. Believes every lie Vasily has poured into his head. Trying to tell him anything else. Well, Boris is afraid Yakov has gone mad as it is. “..don’t say that when you don’t mean it.” 

“But I do. I _do_ mean it.” Ah, and there it is: This centering he does now; Boris does. Everytime he comes close to Yakov. Like he’s steeling himself. Then, he gracefully folds down on the couch next to the old man. Puts a finger of his real hand to Yakov’s cheekbone. “ I _mean_ it. I just… worry about you?” 

Yakov snorts, takes another long drag of his vodka. Steeling yourself is Angelica’s thing, of course. She does it when she _lies._. “Whatever for.” 

“Well… there’s the amount of alcohol you’re drinking?” Boris jokes, or tries. It falls short, too true for Yakov’s liking. His eyes, near begging: is it me? Am _I_ what’s driving you towards this? Is it because of me you are this unhappy?

And the short answer is, of course:

_Yes._

Boris swallows again, then leans carefully forward, his lips closing in on Yakov’s brow. But Yakov flinches back; out of reach, warding Boris off with the bottle up between them. “Don’t! I must smell to high heaven.” 

“Heh.” Boris tries, “ Only a little. It’s okay.” 

It’s _not_ though. It’s not and it never will be okay again. Yakov has ruined them; ruined them all, and all in the name of love. What a pathetic creature he is. With a shake of his head, Yakov lowers his gaze to his bottle, starts to peel off the label. A deflection; a warding. Something to reinstate that distance between them.

“Look.” Boris swallows, seems to stall, and Yakov holds his breath, knowing exactly what is coming next. For they have done this too often, since coming to Russia. But; oh, but this time, he leads with something else. “Look, I passed all the tests and.. I guess Angelica was right? Didn’t need to practice shooting to shoot right. Didn’t need to practice hand-to hand to.. Learn to fight again?“

And he trails off again. Oddly; weakly. Yakov raises his glass. “Angelica is _always_ right”.

Though.. If Yakov thought it couldn’t get worse. If he’d believed that, then he now knows he’s been a fool. If Boris is done. If Vasily has returned to Siberia, pleased... If Boris is here, like this. Trying again. Trying one last time.. then..

“Right. Anyway. I passed, and there’s a plane waiting for me at the airbase. Vasily wants me back ASAP. And I..” 

Yakov breathes out, shakily.. It’s happening. It’s happening. Their window of opportunity has closed. And he’s done nothing. _Nothing_ , because Angelica won’t let him. And now, it’s too late, and they are taking Boris away. Yakov should.. at least focus on what the man is telling him?

”..know I’m not what you fell in love with. But I don’t know when I’ll be back and this.. I don’t want to leave, like this..?”

Yakov blinks back the tears. He knows _exactly_ what Boris is saying. What he is trying to tell him: Boris doesn’t even know if he’ll be back; ever. Gulping breath, but they are on the same page in this, for once, because Boris copies that huff, continues, earnestly: “So, I am sorry, for whatever I did. I wish I remembered; so I could be sorry the right way, but I _am_ sorry.. Wish you’d believe me. I can’t.. remember. But. I am already so, so sorry..” 

“ just stop.” Yakov squints his eyes, trying not to let the tears flow. He needs a moment, before he falls apart, completely. Yet, he has to physically put his hands on Boris’s mouth, because Boris is _not_ stopping. Does not relent. “I am!” he gets out, before Yakov’ second hand joins in, bottle hastily abandoned to the low table. “ahm s’rry?” 

“It’s not your fault.” Yakov repeats, for the millionth time. “You did nothing wrong, you hear me?” Tears are flowing freely now, nose clotting up. Oh, what a mess he is! Next to Boris; perfect, beautiful Boris. He is a sniffling pile of refuge. Stinking and old. and,.. He cannot help it. Yakov looks into those eyes, tries a last, heartfelt confession. “It’s _me._ I did this. And I was going to help you. I was going to get you out of this; out of this mess. You should be free.”

Recklessly, enthralled, Yakov touches that face; cannot let go, now that he has touched That perfect, flawless face. Feels the stubble on his cheek with the palm of his hand as he lets fingers trail over cheekbones, draws around in a circle until he’s got that lovely face in his hands. Cupping jaw, mid fingers falling into the little dip where the skull and neck meet at the back, in his hair... And damn, he shouldn’t have. Because he is drunk and weak and Bakushka,.. No Nikita, no Boris. Is.. is right here, right within reach. Mouth free again, and moving. Spitting out the lies fed to it. “It’s not so bad here. Maybe, one day I’ll get a pardon..? But, if I don’t, I wouldn’t mind. Living here. I just want to come back to you, and..”

A sputtering laugh interrupts that. Yakov is again blown away by how much better Boris is; than any of them. Even when branded a criminal, he’ll own up. Pay his debt. Try and do the _righ_ t thing. And.. that’s the thing Yakov loves most about him, isn’t it? Boris is good; the kind of good Yakov can only taint but he wants it; needs it.. And it’s right here, in front of him. Probably for the last time..

_Is it not better to love and have lost, than not loved at all?_

Yes. 

Yes! Perhaps it’s the alcohol talking; perhaps it’s Yakov’s tainted heart but, before he can stop himself, he drinks Boris in. Tastes those plush lips and pries them apart with his tongue; with his teeth. And Yakov knows he’ll be sorry later. Will curse himself for his weakness. But right now he just _wants_ so bad.

He’s all over Boris, who’s fallen back against his couch, head on the armrest, hands hovering somewhere over Yakov’s back. It’s suddenly a terrible crime, those military green pants, that kaki shirt. And the old man realises he’s never even seen his love naked, not even once. And the few instances he got to see _some_ of that glorious form, he’d been near death, in a hospital bed or on an operating table. But now; healthy and hale..

Yakov thumbes for the men’s belt, groping, pulling. Feeling, if he can find his member. Pressed somewhere. Hidden. Perhaps already up, in his underwear? Reaching out? Trying to find Yakov as well. He presses again, and Boris makes a surprised sound, but not one that strikes him as shocked or appalled. However, when Yakov starts pulling his shirt off, Boris offers in a near mild tone, “hey, ok? Slow down?”

Yakov will not. He will have this one thing. He thinks it is owed to him, with how long he has abstained. With how long he has tried to do what’s right. He pulls again, all but ignoring Boris’s “Yakov?”, “..Yakov?” question-like calls. He pulls the offensive material over that beautiful creature’s head, finally having the chance of roving hands over perfect skin. letting the emotion carry him. Let his love’s voice spur him on. For this is what Boris wanted too, and they will have to be fast, if they mean to get it.

There’s a moment of floating, and a sudden crash. Yakov only realises he’s on the floor when the palms of his hands press against the carpet. His ass possibly hurts where he landed; he’s leaned slightly backwards with his upper body on his hands. He knows he’s hit his head on something, too, from the sudden pounding in his skull. Just above his left temple. And there’s the tang of blood in his mouth. Though, if that is Boris’s, or because he bit his tongue on impact, Yakov is still too drunk to make out. 

The drunk, old man looks up at the creature; that divine angel of wrath on his couch. As Boris sits up and fixes his shirt, face flushed and breath coming fast. His pupils are blown wide, as Yakov knows his own are, and: “..are you going to kill me now?” 

“What..?” Boris flaps his mouth twice, eyes dancing over him. “No; no, sorry I pushed you. I’m just..”

-”it’s okay.” Yakov speaks over him. “I deserve that. You _should_ kill me.”

Boris extends a hand, briefly, before pulling it back like scalded. Scoots away, back to his side of the couch, “look, I’m sorry. I’m not. We should just...” he sighs, bringing up both palms to run through his hair, then flinches at impact. Perhaps from the metal one, hard and sharp. Or, perhaps at Yakov’s whispered words: “ _do it_ , I want you to..”

Boris stands; and again, it might be the alcohol, but when he takes half a step to loom over Yakov; when Yakov tries not to flinch back and just accept his end. He swears there’s tears in Boris’s eyes. “You know what Yakov? _Fuck_ you.”

And without a second glance, Boris is gone, door slammed and shaking on its hinges.

Yakov sits on the floor, on the rug in those guest quarters, and listens to the walls reverberate. There’s something thick and sticky running down his forehead. Likely blood. But, before he even has the time to lift a hand and feel; to check, the door creaks again, then falls down; outwards; from it’s busted frame.

Yakov laughs, scoots around in the mess they've made. A chair behind Yakov is upturned, and his bottle of vodka is on the floor, some of that precious alcohol spilling into the carpet’s fibres. But there’s still plenty left. 

“I’ll drink to that.” Yakov calls as he lifts the bottle.


	12. steps

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "you are late." she tells him. though the words are but code by now...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW:: alluding to torture and manipulation..

Jan 1964

She dances; like a woman possessed. Sweat beading her form, body pulsing. Pulsing still; from her center, outward. But now, at least, her hands too; her fingers. Her wrists. Her arms, her shoulders. And yes, her feet. Her toes. Her ankle; her damned right ankle. Still, even with all she gets from the lab, pulses so much more; stronger than her left. And yet, even that pulsing of her ankle is easy to ignore, compared to the pulsing that comes from the center of her.

_ ‘The Swan: Arms folded, on tiptoe, she dreamily and slowly circles the stage. By even, gliding motions of the hands, returning to the background from whence she emerged, she seems to strive toward the horizon, as though a moment more and she will fly..., she dies. _ [ _ [3] _ ](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Dying_Swan#cite_note-FOOTNOTEBalanchineMason1975138-3) _ ’ _

Angelica had never been one for the Dying Swan. It’s ancient; and hardly spectaculair. Not enough jumping and turning and showing off; not for young, idealistic Angelica; the one that danced and shone before an audience. This, this older version? She might come to see it’s beauty yet.

_ ‘ _ [ _ Maya Plisetskaya _ ](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Maya_Plisetskaya) _ , the one to bring the piece to life, interpreted the swan as elderly and stubbornly resisting the effects of aging, much like herself.’ _

Much like Angelina sees herself now, aswell. Not quite ready to face the truth; still hanging on to the  _ her  _ she remembers from years ago. Still stubbornly keeping to this; this small thing she still has. Dancing. Even if her dance studio is now one without an audience. Without music. Without the supporting cast of dancers. Without the adoring fans... without  _ suitors _ ...

And so often now, without a dancing partner.

At that, Angelica cannot help the quick glance towards the door. The surge of unrequested hope. She stamps it down, with annoyance. Yes, Boris is away, often now. That is as it should be. She has taught him..  _ not _ all she can teach. But hopefully all he needs. Though Vasily seems content to send him her way, when he has no need for his American.

It should not bother her. Angelica has... Enough on her plate to keep her busy. With the class of young orphan girls Vasily has promised her on the way; all the work that still needs to be done on sleeping quarters, on space and teachers and whatever else young girls require. There are three girls left of Angelica’s original class of six she came here with. Those she will at least put to use teaching. Angelica’s already keeping what’s left of that advanced class together by sheer force of well; might save those three last girls from going astray. 

Because, even if the girls themselves don’t see it, Angelica knows what’s become of the three she’s lost. The eldest back to her beau, back to Siberia. And that, in itself, is a tragedy. The youngest, however, Angelica weeps for at night. Tovia, was indeed knocked up; now married off to that nasty pedophile that did her, and already on her third pregnancy. 

And finally, there’s Ylayja, her next most promising girl. She joined the KGB a month ago; against Angelica’s explicit wishes. She’s no doubt caught up in some spy thing, because Angelica’s not heard from her since. Ylayja could be dead by now, for all Angelica knows. Like Angelica’s mother had turned out to be; years back, though no-one had even informed her. Kidnapped and held captive for months to keep her second husband in line. Well. Mother had been a fool to remarry to a man in politics. 

Then again Angelica’s own husband, Yakov Karpov, is more useless and drunk than ever. With his temper and tantrums, leaving her to clean the messes he makes. Taking out his rage on their china, on their photos, on the walls. Useless, weak. Too pathetic even to raise a hand to her. Sometimes, she nearly wished he did. That he would.. She could use the excuse to beat some sense into that man. And then that business with Lukin that he kept coming back to...

Oh, yes. And Lukin himself. Coming _ on  _ to h _ er; _ sweet words and honeyd offers. Wooing her like some young damsel; like she doesn’t know he has some hidden agenda. Snake that he is, vying for her position in the same breath as her attention.

God, how she hates him, and his overt alluding to.. to her loneliness. Her quiet nights, spent staring at the ceiling. While before, she had been a woman coveted. And Just out of ‘curiosity’, Lukin asks her, if she never misses, never aches, never..

Oh, but she  _ is  _ lonely. He’s not  _ wrong. _ Spends her nights staring at the ceiling in her bed, useless husband at her side. Both quiet and still, both dreaming and wishing to be with anyone; anyone but the other. Though, really, Angelica is not desperate enough to reach for Lukin. Not that desperate yet. Because she knows he is two-faced. Only looking to gain from her. 

But god, she does want, she does ache and pulse. From deep inside, between her legs. Worse, when she dances, her body remembers what she once had. Yet she is unable to stop. Stop dancing… She is old and aging, yes. Yet still subject to that biological clock, useless as it is on her. Her ovaries ruined, and still it ticks, ticks ticks inside her... ticks and pulses. Such a drag. Such a distraction...

And then, _ he _ is suddenly there. Boris; she spies him first through the wall-length mirror, then turns to see him perched in the open door frame. Green army pants, muddy boots. A sleeveless shirt, the left arm angled away from her, hidden. Boris is back, and it’s like the weight of the world might just be a little bit easier to bear. And she is angry with him, yes. But that’s mostly because:

“You are late.” Though, before the last syllable has left her lips, her anger has bled away. The greeting is practically code at this point. She tries to scowl, when he takes a faltering step forward. It fails miserably. He _ is _ late though. Angelica had expected him back weeks ago. 

But she does know how missions run; Things come up. Complications rise; Vasily suddenly needs Boris back in Siberia. These things happen. Still, this time, she was not kept in the loop. That, beyond anything, had scared Angelica.

“Sorry,” Boris offers, weakly, his right hand coming up then falling back. He looks pale. Tired. A little desperate. Yet, she won’t let that bother her. She’s done them all a service; all of them. Getting them here. And if this haven is only temporary for Boris, it is still, a safe haven. 

“How was..” Angelica stalls, because she knows better. Shouldn ask. “Was the mission a success?”

“I..,” he frowns, a somewhat adorable crease between his eyebrows.

“Never mind.” she says it, perhaps too quickly. Because she knows... Knows what that means. Yet, she cannot help him. This is his burden. Angelica has too much going on as is; and more still. 

“Yes..” he  _ is _ weird about it. “It was..Successful? And...” Angelica knows there were some complications. Agents ended up dead; Boris, missing in America for over a week with no contact. But, that’s already more than she wanted to know. More than is  _ safe _ . She has.. Yes. Angelica does not want that knowledge. Then again, not knowing has never been an option for Angelica either. To Boris, however.. “Look at me Boris. If you do not remember, then it is because you  _ shouldn’t  _ remember. What you  _ do  _ need to remember, is how to  _ dance _ . Do you still know the steps?” 

He hums, takes another step closer, makes an abortive gesture, reaching for her. Then, shakes his head, blushing lightly. And that, that  _ does _ upset her. Anger and worry at war, two sides of the coin, for her. For Boris; yes, she’d worried for him. Lost her objectivity, she’s afraid. Perhaps she is turning soft in old-age. But for herself, for all of them as well. A deep calming breath. “It’s okay. We will start again, from the beginning.” 

“Yes..” It seems a pleasant thought to him. As it should be. ”No one needs to know? We can just...” he shrugs; turns to reveal his hidden side. Then he lifts his left arm up for her, like presenting it for an inspection. It takes her a moment to realise, it does not gleam.

“Oh, Boris!” She moves over quickly, crossing the distance between them; too quickly. Even with the painkillers her ankle flares. But, she ignores it. - a small thing, compared to… Angelica caresses that flesh left hand, moves it over to her cheek. “It’s beautiful. How does it feel?”

“Doesn’t really feel anything. Sorry.” he shrugs; and Angelica registers that it’s cold to the touch. Like the corpse it was probably taken from. Yet, she refuses to shudder. “It’s beautiful,” she assures him, though it’s just slightly off in color. She turns it, inspects it. The fingernails are far from healthy, black-rimmed and chafed.. But, that might soft itself out. This is Boris, after all. “I am _ so glad  _ they finally did it.”

“Needed it for the op anyway. I had to..” he frowns again, something far away in his expression. And Angelica has a sudden nasty quench in her gut. There is.. very little left of him this time. Yet, she cannot let herself get distracted by such things. Instead of thinking further, she stands, en pointe, turns away from him, and reaches a daintily hand over her shoulder, caressing his neck. “Your body will remember the steps. Or, mine will show you. Let’s see how you dance with that arm.”

At the permission, Boris surges against her, crashing like a wave against her back. Desperate to touch as he usually is right after returning. And even if Angelica knows he’s already visited her husband. Visited, and was likely turned away. She falls back against him, feeling complete for at least this one moment. This one time... She doesn’t care about the reist; this is better than nothing. Even if the fingers of his new hand are so stiff. “How do you feel about learning to play the piano?”

“I really think I’ve got enough on my plate as is.” Boris counters in her ear.

“And now you’ll have a little more still.” She turns in his arms, pulls on the hem of his shirt, “Take off those frightful boots. Don’t you know I do not want them on my beautiful floor?” Drags away the parts hiding his clavicle. There is no infection; no angry red spotting anywhere on his chest. So she feels, at the seams around his shoulder, where him and the new arm- Flesh-arm, join. Runs her fingers over his back And, Angelica finds words she actually means: “Just hold me, I am sure your body will remember the steps.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> s' quiet here. throw me a word so I know you made the end ;)


	13. recalibration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> World War Three, nov 1963-?, is a complete and total disaster.  
> Professor Doctor Zola is... very disappointed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: nazi/hydra blanket shit. Including but not limited to racism, dehumanization, eugenics, and generally looking down on everyone. This chapter is written in Doctor Zola's perspective, so I think you can guess.  
> TW: Bucky is exposed to sensory deprivation. 
> 
> special thanks to [personaljunkdrawer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/personaljunkdrawer/pseuds/personaljunkdrawer)

“What happened?” Professor Doctor Zola is beyond angry, marches next to the stout and ridiculously large General Vasily Karpov. Keeps pace with his ridiculously long strides by sheer power of rage. Another level lower, down into the bowels of this man’s Siberian base. It’s dark, dreary, and decidedly Russian, which only adds fuel to the fires burning within the Doctor.

How Zola had  _ worked;  _ how he had  _ slaved _ ; crawled back up from under Operation Paperclip’s shadow. For over _ fifteen years _ . Ingratiating himself with the Americans; help them with their stupid new Agency, smile and simper when their allies from France and England showed up... And finally, when Zola thought he had made it; when he’d finally made enough friends, gathered enough goodwill, derailed the suspicion... When Zola had finally managed to initiate a plot so intricate and perfect it should have finally started the War to end all Wars...

And their Russian branch messes it up.

If that wasn’t bad enough; these Russians have now  _ summoned  _ him _. _ Like some god-damned  _ underling _ . His first break; his first leave away from his jailors, and it’s at the whims of these incompetent Russians. If anything, it brings home how far he has fallen. How much longer still his climb back to the top of Hydra might take. Zola worries he doesn’t have enough years of life in him to make that comeback, let alone live to see their perfect new world. Not with this, what should have been a perfect plot  _ failing. _

The USSR and America should have declared war on the other by now. A-bombs flying, people in panic. Zola had wanted to be in a bunker like the one he is in now, yes. But, carefully locked away. Waiting for the moment Hydra could step back out of the shadows, save the people by restoring order. Yet again, Zola’s great Utopia is little more than a pipedream. All that careful planning. Ruined. “What went wrong..?”

“Your great weapon is.. uncooperative.” General Vasily answers gruffly, finally slowing down at what appear to be an airlock. 

“Which one?” Zola tries to measure his breath; Tries not to show how much the track through this underground labyrinth has winded him. “The memory machine?” 

“No, the other one; or yes,..” the General replies, folding hands behind his back as a pair of soldiers grab the wheel on the round door, then nods pensively. “Maybe both..?” 

There are, of course, more than two projects Zola has needed to share; to stash away in Russia, away from prying eyes. The ones that do not bear sympathy for his cause. Things are just ... _ easier _ to hide in The USSR. There is just so much space here. 

Still, Zola can only think of one project that would be named in the same breath as the memory machine. And a twisted kind of anticipation lands in his stomach when he realises where they must be going. That he is about to, finally, meet it again.

As the men heave the groaning wheel into motion, Vasily turns his head to the professor-doctor, and offers: “All was going well until now. We’ve done several missions, implanting a short-span identity as you suggested. A temporary name; put in the parameters. It is an elegant solution, considering how his original identity tends to resurface. We send him out like that: with a lie upon a lie; layers if you will. When the first layer peels, Boris will simply come home to us... unless...” 

With a final groan, the door opens, clangs against the far wall with a hollow thud, and Vasily breaks off, strides forwards and manouvreuses himself through the hole. Doctor Professor Zola is left to scowl at the dark opening, as several aids and soldiers squeeze through after their general. “Unless  _ what? _ ” 

General Vasily Karpov stands at the center of the room, hands again at his back, feet planted at parade rest. "Unless, two words."

Assistants file in, obscuring Zola's view of the space beyond. This will not do, so Zola cuts in line aggressively, then steps through the hole, one hand on the rounded frame. The first thing Zola recognises, is the stale quality of the room. By no means warm, but stuffy; poorly ventilated. The second is, that his memory machine wouldn’t even fit in here; and the third, as the last of their entourage trails in, is that there really shouldn’t need this many people in here at once. 

“What words?” The doctor grunts, tiring of his unwanted patron’s games. He takes two steps forward, then thinks better of it, and stops. He already needs to look up at the Russian; Zola would rather not crane his neck to do it. Also, the soldier and assistants have turned silent as statues, regarding the pair of them with an uneasy tension. Zola feels it too; the sudden need to fish his handkerchief from his pocket and wipe his running brow. He fights the compulsion, but only because Zola knows he has an image to uphold. The left corner of General Vasily’s mouth slowly quirks up as they stare each other down. “You know what words, Zola. You are the one that put them there, after all.” 

Irritation from getting addressed so —without as much as a title!— wars with the prickling of the doctor’s skin; a warning; some instinct perhaps. Though Doctor Professor Zola would like to think himself above such animalistic traits. Therefore, Zola chooses anger. At least that, he has a logical argument for:  _ “what wordsl!?”  _

Breath freezes in his throat, when Zola finally spies what’s behind the General. An upright figure, unmoving. Held up by scaffolding and fetters. Its face is hidden inside a black cowl, and the fingers of both hands splayed wide, secured over what looks like halved metal melons. There are tubes running into the cowl and into the right arm, more disappearing down below. Yet between thick leather and metal, there is the distinct gleam of skin. A chest, he can see quite a bit of. Further down, Zola only looks out of professional interest, pubid hair and wires and tape hiding most from view anyway. “Disgusting! What are you doing to it?” 

The General grunts, sounding out in slow, bored English: “This is in keeping with my uncle’s theories. There is no need for our American to encase itself in armor, here. Because this is base, and here he is safe. There is no need to hide anything, for we know when he has been good, and we will reward him accordingly. But, when he is bad, we do not punish; we do not hurt him. We simply _take_ _away_ the reward.” 

Zola steps past the general and frowns up at the unfortunate creature trussed up for them. There are earmuffs hidden under that cowl, and  _ Fuhrer _ only knows what else. At least they are not mollycoddling his experiment, which is what Zola had feared, but... “What nonsense, what a waste of effort. It is  _ not t _ hat difficult, you .. “ Zola manages to swallow down a slew of insults this time. Condemning the Russian General for the slow piece of dirt he obviously is. “You _ wipe _ it, you  _ put a gun in its hand _ . You  _ point _ it at a target...” 

“Hmmm,” the General starts, achingly slow; drawls perhaps. Is the man making fun of Professor Zola? Does the boorish general think himself _ smarter _ than a Professor Doctor?! “I think perhaps the doctor  _ himself _ does not...  _ understand _ the nature of his creation?” 

“Do not get smart with me, you…” Zola stalls; because the creature in his periferie is moving; or as much as it can. Straining in its bonds; chest moving with breaths faster than warranted. And, though the room is cold and the creature naked but for what must be cold metal and unforgiving leather, there’s a light sheen of newly-formed perspiration on its chest. “Can it hear us..?”

“Shouldn't.” Vasily grunts, “but one can never be sure with this one.” he gestures, and two assistants start taking off its cowl, crowding Zola’s vision as they remove wires and tubing, causing the creature to gurgle. Vasily commands Zola’s attention again though, his hand making a magnanimous gesture. “Perhaps you should speak with him, good doctor. As you are _ obviously _ the expert.”

Zola studies it as the assistants finish up freeing it’s face. Or close enough: the head is still strapped in some form of half-helmet vice, a band running over its forehead; cheek pieces keeping it from turning away more than a few degrees. Though it seems adamant to do so anyway, eyes pressed firmly closed and breath still coming too fast. Tendons stick out in its neck and muscle ripple over markless skin. Near-perfect, but for the left arm: white, soft. An ungainly thing when compared to the rest. Zola scowls at the offending appendage. “It grew back like  _ that? _ ” Zola asks.

“Flesh graft, done by one of your Russian... colleagues,” With which the unpleasant man no doubt means he’s cut it off a corpse and sowed it onto Zola’s supersoldier. The doctor gnashes his teeth at the impunity. “...holds well, for now.” 

“What happened to the metal one I sent you..?”

“What didn’t happen?” Vasily shrugs, unimpressed. “Metal fatigue, oil leaks. Violent allergic reactions. Not your best work, I am afraid... It  _ was  _ your work, of course?” 

Zola decides to ignore that question. Because this Russian peasant? Is playing with him. Yes, on the one hand hearing how bad the prosthetic turned out, Zola would like to release any claim to building that arm. Such failure will put his brilliance in a bad limelight. On the other, if he drops his claim and credits the student originally responsible for the design? Oh, Zola would not want it whispered he’d stolen _ all _ his inventions. The serum had been bad enough. And, hardly fair. Zola had made his own, different version.

So, instead he turns to his subject, just as an assistant finishes pulling wax from it’s ears. Oh, peering up at the creature brings back such sweet memories. In Zola’s mind he can see it still; tied down to his table. Has it really been twenty years..? “Do you remember me, Mister Barnes?” 

Zola’s creation...  _ doesn’t _ react. Doesn’t even grunt, eyes squinted closed, leaking fluids. Head pressed against the cheek brace as far as it can go. Annoyed, Zola snaps his fingers in front of its face, sure that if the creature has been locked away here for what must be weeks by now, the sound will be deafening to it. Yet again, not even a twitch. Somewhere it must have calmed itself, for it was on the verge of panic barely a minute ago. And, it is still stubborn as ever: those grey-blue eyes stay shut, and its breathing is measured and barely notable now. Still like a statue. A corpse put up in a sarcophage. Zola turns back to the Russian general in frustration.

Vasily gives him a smug smile. “Is he not operating to your expectations? He is just sulking; apologies. My uncle would be better at this, but let me try.” The man takes off his leather glove and reaches past Zola, touches the experiment’s cheek. And then, only then, the subject blinks. Like coming to life at a touch; like a seed buried and in dry rock, dead until a ray of spring rain falls on it.

Barnes breathes in deeply, nostrils flaring; like it’s drinking the smell of Vasily. Then squeaks, couching twice, before Zola recognises the stream of sound coming from it is a tumble of  _ Russian _ . Actual words; rough and fast and pleading.

Now, Zola speaks a fair bit of Russian; it has become crucial in communicating with the few allies he has left. Yet still, the combination of Barnes’s raspy voice and the speed at which he speaks mean Zola only catches the words. “No traitor,” and “Plot.”

Vasily lets this continue a moment, face blank. Then he barks at Barnes, using that army-voice a drill sergeant would wield to keep his underlings in line. —then again, Vasily _ is _ just overpromoted military plebs. — The general pulls back his exposed hand with a frown, expression dismissive. But then turns back to Zola, a soft, mocking smile returning to his lips as he gestures, too sweetly, for Zola to take the stage.

With reluctance, the doctor approaches his experiment again —Zola’s greatest achievement; the only one that lived. It blinks, finally giving up that longing gaze directed on Vasily, and focuses on the doctor. Zola holds eye contact, breast swelling at the accomplishment. For despite its obvious discomfort, the creature looks so much sharper, stronger and healthier than it had at the table, nearly twenty years ago now. “I am your creator.”

Barnes blinks at him twice, before turning back to the general, speaking over Zola’s shoulder. “Донор?”  _ Doner _ ? Zola thinks.

But the Russian shakes his head, muttering “творец”;  _ maker _ . 

This has an instant, most interesting effect: Mr.Barnes relaxes in his restraints- though there’s hardly any give- and his face splits into the most joyous, radiant smile. “Fatie! Kommt mal her und gibt mir ein Kuss.”

This, Zola does understand:  _ Father! Come here and give me a kiss. _ which is... Odd? Does it think they are related by blood? Or does he mean a father of the _ idea  _ of it? How did Barnes even know German was Zola’s first language? It can't remember meeting before, surely. And Zola has worked to hide his accent. It’s hard enough, living in America under Operation Paperclip without the added stigma. Hard and completely unfair.

Barnes seems to sense Zola’s hesitation, and cajolingly switches back to English. “Come, explain to my Bolschewich friends I mean them no harm. They can let me out of this. I didn’t mean to botch their mission, but there was a traitor. Not  _ me. _ They were trying to start another war, dammit! I  _ stopped _ them…” 

“Yes, Mr. Barnes.” Zola inquires, taking a genuine interest. “You most certainly did. Why is that?” 

“Why is..?” The confusion on the American’s face is almost comical. Its eyes dance, from one person to the next, trying to address the room at large. “Come on? we’re all Comrades here..,” Barnes blinks, “...war is bad?” 

Vasily grunts, steps forward, and interjects, smoothly: “You see our problem, doctor? Boris likes to _ think on his own _ .” this part, Vasily bites at Barnes, in clipped reprimand. Then, he turns back to Zola. “...and then he does  _ what he thinks is right.  _ At any rate, we have a dead American president, eight of my most trusted men murdered, and not a hint of advantage to show for it. Hell, we’ve gotten off  _ lightly; _ just barely escaped having our entire organisation exposed.” 

Barnes does not look guilty. Confused: yes. Guilty..? No. Dying to ask a million questions. Which means, it will need another wipe... not that the operation was still salvageable... Hydra is back at their starting point, it seems. Nearly as far back as after Germany’s capitulation. Zola thinks he has a stress headache. Lifting his round glasses, he rubs at the painful indents. “When you wiped it, did you use a high enough setting?” 

This time, there is no mistaking the blatant condensation in Karpov’s tone. “So, here’s the thing. I put your machine on dial _ four, _ I get this drooling thing back that doesn’t know which side of the gun the bullets come from. I put it on three.. he forgets his name, maybe what year it is. And even when we get it right, even when I retain murder and manage to throw away his annoying questioning..? Our American is just as likely to  _ finish the mission _ as  _ wander off and join some hippies singing kumbaya around a campfire. _ ” 

“Then wipe it  _ harder!”  _ Zola snarls back,  _ “ _ This mission was vital!” These accusations that his base material was flawed?  _ Preposterous. _

Zola is well aware that genetics matter in this; he practically invented the theory! That is why he selected pure European descent; only from the soldiers; only from the best. And only those that displayed the most aggression. Sergeant Barnes had been a  _ fighter _ . That was the one reason he had survived the experiment. “It would have been  _ worth _ it. It is not complicated. This one is a simple attack dog..”

“Oh,  _ yes _ , doctor. Good analogy. Boris, do you remember the dogs?” 

_ 'Boris' _ , eyes going back and forth, visibly bites its tongue, then tries to shake its head. “Well,” Vasily continues, in a facsimile of calm, “I guess that machine  _ did _ do  _ something. _ I will tell you: there was a pack of dogs. They attacked you, Boris. You killed them.” 

“Oh no. Why?” it offers, obviously saddened. “Why would I do that? They were probably just scared of me. I  _ can _ be scary...” 

“Ah, but sadly, the dogs all had rabies. They could not be saved, so. When we explained you decided to end their suffering...” 

“Oh,” Sergeant Barnes pouts. “Poor doggies.” 

“You see what I’m dealing with here?” the General stares at Barnes, yet somehow the accusation is pointed at Doctor Zola. “I spend about  _ eighty percent _ of my recourses on building him an identity, and explaining why casualties are necessary. And yet, he is still too soft to do us much good. Unless of course, we use those  _ two little words _ …”

“Words..?” Zola asks; he cannot help himself.

“You  _ know _ the words.” 

Zola turns towards Vasily, then to Barnes, who frowns. No answers coming from it, of course. The experiment is more confused than it's ever been on the table; when it was created. But, at least it had stopped repeating those annoying numbers. That had become  _ tiresome. _ It had been all it said. That, and maybe cursing Hydra...

Oh. “You mean,  _ Hail Hydra _ ?” 

“Hail Hydra.” the soldiers around them chorus. And that nearly tears Zola up. Because it’s been so _ long; _ none of his American allies deem it necessary to give the chant these days. They say it’s old fashioned, or some such rubbish.

But Barnes,.. Barnes goes  _ feral _ . All the friendly smiles and cognisant speech is gone. In its place is a wild, murderous beast. Snarling, jaws snapping. The scaffolding groans, metal tested to its limits, leather bindings creaking; dangerously close to snapping. 

“Fascinating,” Zola ponates, though he goes easily when Vasily drags him away from the room, back to safety.

As the round air-lock closes, the sounds from beyond turning mute, Vasily turns to the doctor one last time. “Yes, Professor. Fascinating. And it would be useful too, had those two little words incited Boris to kill anyone but _ us _ ...” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ps: this is one of the big ones!! you know, those snippets I wrote to begin this part of the fic, and it's been re-edited a LOT. and, even beta'd!! so awesome. I hope you enjoyed <3


	14. pirouette

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There’s a moment of weightlessness, a slight worry tingling in the back of her spine, yet she never hits the ground. Waxed wood, hard and unforgiving, thumbs loudly as he spins her in his arms, like a merry go-round, one foot taking the impact; no, his knee perhaps. Still she stops inches from the ground, dizzy and heady and horizontal.
> 
> Angelica giggles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi guys, sorry I am late. been sick all week. seems like nothing more than a common cold but I'm so tired all the time :)  
> special thank to personaljunkdrawer for betawork.
> 
> TW: sexual scenes, dubious consent due to identity issues.

There’s a moment of weightlessness, a slight worry tingling in the back of her spine, yet she never hits the ground. Waxed wood, hard and unforgiving, thumbs loudly as he spins her in his arms, like a merry go-round, one foot taking the impact; no, his knee perhaps. Still she stops inches from the ground, dizzy and heady and horizontal.

Angelica _giggles_.

Very unbecoming. 

Angelica hasn’t giggled since she was fourteen. Young and fresh and so, so very innocent. God, was that behind the boy’s gym, with...? What even _was_ his name? A sweet boy, two years her senior. She doesn’t regret him though; perhaps the giggle. Yes, the giggle has always been bad for her image.

Yet, Angelica hardly cares; she has been strong and alone for two decades, and cold turkey after her last lay was... perhaps the best. But she misses it; missed this. Badly, she knows as she rubs her temple against the stubble on cheek and feels... feels good. Boris’s chest stutters with a hint of laughter, reciprocating. And then, she’s kissing him, hungrily on the lips. His breath shocks past her as his answer. Half a drag in, and for a moment, she imagines he’d push her off, drop her. But, then, he’s licking into her mouth, biting her lips and... Ooh, ooh. What’s she forgetting? Something important.

Oh right: advanced class is up for practice.

Well, they can get started without her. They often do. All she needs is- is somewhere. God, she has been longing for so long. And, Boris is her only option. A good option, really. The only other one is Lukin and he... no. Never. Not with that type of man. She’d rather _die._ But, Angelica feels like she really _will_ die, if she doesn’t at least get this.

“Come on,” she tells him, dragging that odd, white arm behind her; trying to pull him up. Boris makes a defeated, sad sound. Like trying to accept she has changed her mind. Angelica has _not;_ couldn’t, if she wanted to. She is nearly as starved for affection as he must be. “We have to go somewhere private,” she assures.

This time, he does get up, the pair of them making their way back to Angelica’s quarters. The place is nothing like the stand-alone farmhouse they’d had in Siberia; that would have been a safer haven perhaps. These are just rooms inside one of the sprawling buildings their Russian complex is composed of. Yet, it is spacious and warm. And, most importantly, _hers._ They will not be disturbed. 

They are not seen. Such is Boris’ skill. Even if two of Angelica’s girls cross paths with them in the hallway, Boris pushes them back into a niche or an empty room far before getting noticed. And so, Angelica has _fun_ with it, dishelving his shirt further. Kissing him till his lips turn red. Smudging her lipstick over his ear, neck, cheeks. By the time they are in front of her door, they are both laughing. 

“Wait,” he says. “What about Yakov?” 

“He won’t be home;” hardly ever is. Her husband-in-name-only has his own rooms now. There’s next to no chance of him finding out at all. Besides, would it be so bad, if he did? If Yakov found the pair of them fucking? Angelica gets a nasty rush from the thought. _Good,_ it hisses, Let him _hurt._ Let him _suffer._ Perhaps that will shock him out from that useless shell of self-loathing he’s built for himself.

“But, no wait.” He stops kissing her; stops laughing; stretches to his full height, annoyingly putting his lips out of her reach. “I’m supposed to be... hell, you’re his _wife._ We can’t do this. It’s..” 

“We _can,_ and we will.” She climbs him like a tree, legs coming up around him, and that nearly unbalances him in the doorway. “Listen to me, I know your memory is spotty, but do you even remember _having sex_ with him? Even once?” 

That gets him: that’s got him frowning, eyes somewhere on the floor. Just over her head, propped against his shoulder as she stares up. It _should;_ Vasily spins his tale of this make-believe relationship between Yakov and Boris time and again, yet Yakov has yet to _consummate._ Won’t go much further than a hand on this creature’s shoulder, usually. And even for that, Yakov needs to be drunk —will drink himself into sickness as punishment as soon as he realises what he’s done.

Despite Boris’s very open, encouraging behavior on that front. Despite the need, the hunger visible and raw on both their faces every time they meet. Yes, even Angelica practically counselling Boris through their encounters. Because, honestly? She’d rather have the pair fucking at her expense than watch them die of lonelyness. Angelica may be a hard woman, but she has never been cruel.

“No, but,” his hands close, carefully, over her ass. Both holding her, but also feeling her up. Fingers splayed over the skin-tight of her panties, of her leotard. One hand real and warm, the other weak and fake in comparison. 

“Close the door, and trust me.” She directs with her most regal voice. “Because you remember _that_ right, he’s been guilt-tripping himself so long _neither_ of you are getting _any._ Is that even fair?” 

Neither of _them;_ and her least of all. And right now that seems monumentally unfair. Unfair and unnecessary, she considers as he closes the door. Because he is _Boris._ Angelica _likes_ that in him. He knows how to listen; how to obey. He is easy enough to direct. 

“We can’t..”

Or, he is, usually. Angelica lets out a weary sigh. “Look, worst comes to worst, he finds out; gets mad and declares it over. Would that be so bad? Or do you enjoy pining away. Possibly forever?” 

“But...” 

_“Forever_ , Boris.” Angelica grins, one foot extended to the floor as he lets her slide down. She takes his real hand, walking backward, guiding him to the open bedroom door, the bed in its center beckoning. “Do you even know how _old_ you are?” 

He blinks at her, confused. “I think I remember dying.” 

She laughs at him. “You _can’t_ die. Maybe you can’t even age…” When the back of her knees hit the bed, she sits down, slides her hands down the sides of his hips and rubs lovingly. “But, I _do._ And so does Yakov. I used to look younger than you, Boris. At least by ten years. Now what do you think? Looks to be the other way around, doesn't it..?”

He makes a distressed noise, and Angelica pounces on it, “Trust me. Let me take care of you. Before I die of old age…”

“Ok.” he kisses her; bending down, hands to her shoulders. Hard and wet and very, very poorly. “Ok, please just stop talking,” he whines, tries to get on the bed, over her; but she pushes him back with a guiding hand, back to his feet. He yields, easy to direct from years now of practicing ballet in this manner. But his eyes are wide and fearful. 

Angelica laughs at him again; at that amount of honestly displayed. Yakov assured her covert-op had been their specialty; back when it had been Bakushka and Yakov. Yet, with a face like that Angelica wonders how he’d ever get away with even a half-truth. 

But —though it is a mirror of her own worst nightmare: the horror of dying alone... cut off from any kindness... —seeing that mirrored fear and knowing they share this fear breaks it’s hold over her, and Angelica pulls his pants down, unceremoniously; dispels any power the horror might have over him as well.

She takes down his briefs in one go. His member bounces after, only half up. Tentative and hesitant, yet curious and questing. The tip red and scrubbed, the now-risen area that would rest against his balls sticky and smelly. Like he put a hose to his own skin and called it a day. 

“Well next time maybe clean up before you come to me.” She says it haughtily, a little sarcastically. 

But, Boris isn’t _there_ anymore. Or he is, but not listening: still as a statue as he stares at the wall across the bed with a dead look in his eyes. 

Angelica, not used to getting ignored, pinches the inside of his thigh. "Pay attention?"

Boris starts, blinks down at her; “Sorry. I was just thinking. Maybe I’m not the _same_ one as before? Not the same person as before? Maybe I’m a... a clone..?”

Angelica laughs at him harder. Rubs his ass to take the sting out, happy that this is a fear she can lay to waste forever. “Boris, if they could clone you, there would be an _army_ of you. And you most certainly would not need a substitute arm... how _is_ that arm..?” 

“It’s... They are not happy with output.” 

“Of course they are not,” she grins, kneads harder, and rubs her cheek against his stomach and member in one happy gathering, “so, back on point. I expect you to be clean next time, you hear?” Because, there _will_ be a next time.

“Oh sorry I didn’t get a chance to may- _fuck_.” 

Angelica doesn’t wait for him to finish speaking; just gobbles and sucks and swallows him whole. The shock alone is enough to be worth the few moments of bitter taste. Besides, if one doesn’t want to put something in their mouth, one should definitely not be putting it in any other holes. And that’s a creed that’s always served her well.

Boris hovers over her, still completely tense, until she grabs his good arm, drags it into her hair and moves it to stroke her. He takes the hint, quickly. Because he is _good_ with hints. And stands breathing over her heavily as his one hand rubs the base of her skull, messing up her ballet bun. 

When he’s decently firm, she pulls back; ridiculously pleased at herself for not having lost her touch after a good two decades of abstaining.

“I.. should I..?”

“Oh yes, _definitely_ reciprocate.” she assures him, worming her arms out of her leathard before sliding backwards on the bed and lying down like some princess from the movies. The panties, too flicked aside with a snap of her good foot. She reclines, in all her naked still-glory, and waits.

Left waiting a little too long, honestly; and when she scowls down in question Boris is somewhere below, studying her bush. Then he takes a last gulp of air and practically eats the whole of her. Wide-jawed and tongue slapping. Angelica sputters, in surprise. And, a moment later in giggles, her labia turning ticklish as she pushes him off.

“Oh, god. I forgot about _virgins_. Frightful, really.”

“Sorry.” He sits back, knees on the bed between her legs, frowns with a slight blush. “ _Am_ I...a virgin?”

She snorts at him. “Very much doubt that.” 

But, honestly, who would know? Angelica may have wormed her way into getting some intel from Siberia, via Tovia. She may be getting more by snooping around; mostly using her girls... But still, she has very little on the nature of how they control Boris. Or, perhaps she doesn’t quite understand what she _does_ know; Has learned.

But it hardly matters. Angelica doesn’t believe there’s any place for any of them to run. No place she’d get a better life than here, surely. Her gathering of intel is more about keeping herself safe, maybe wrestling for another advantage. Yakov’s silly pipedream of escaping somewhere will never be more than just that: a pipedream.

So, she has mercy on Boris and pulls him up next to her, rolls over him and throws one leg over seductively. “I’m sure it will all come back to you as we go.” Dancing does, usually, after all. Muscle memory, something always still there, somewhere. And what is dancing if not love in choreography? ”Come here, and I shall be your training wheels.”

Lead and teacher too, but that’s fine. She has been all of those for him for a while now. Should she even be surprised that he would copy her teasing of his cock? No; imitation is not only flattery, but the most basic form of learning. But, for now, she would rather just get off quick. So she gives him a last cursory suck and then carefully slides down on him. Helps him out of his shirt and straddles him. Her lips are swollen enough still, perhaps from ballet; perhaps from excitement after so long without. Wet though; that, he did take care of, at least.

With another shimmy he slides into her easily, and Angelica cannot help but sigh. How long? How fucking long..? Not since Andrick; not really. That one time... that time didn’t count. With that filthy SS bastard. Who she will _not_ remember. Not even give a name. Not now. Not _now. He is dead._ They are _all_ dead.

No; this is good. Angelica on top is probably better for both of them. Control she didn’t even realise she so desperately needed. Yet, she cannot, _curse her ankle_ , get up to a squat to get some decent friction going. She tries to at least get onto one foot, but that too jostles that weak, painful part of her; badly healed bones crunching and sending out jolts not even her medications can dull. So she settles back on her knees; small, unfulfilling motions that frustrate the both of them all too soon.

Still, this is _Boris:_ ridiculously strong and so attuned to her that he doesn’t even need any memories. He just slides off the bed, to the side; supporting her with both arms -one warm, right, one cold and wrong but somehow living flesh, and gets to his feet. Angelica is not quite the featherweight she used to be, though she keeps herself in check.. But this; this is as much like flying on the stage as anything: to feel him still inside him as she soars...

Until she finds herself with her back against the wall and she must weigh nothing to him. Because when he starts moving against her in earnest, her legs somewhere far away, splayed wide, her back against the wall and her ass supported in his hands. It wakes that little ball of fear inside her. A desperate plea to hold on to control forcing her to speak up: “Carefull, I am just a woman. You’ll break my back at this rate.”

“Sorry,” half a grunt, bit a bit more restraint after. Enough to calm her speeding heart, for those few more thrusts, before he shudders inside her. Naked bodies against each other, moored within those few seconds of bliss. Sweat sticking them together like glue. And then he’s already setting her down. She is still hungry, still unsatisfied.. But surely, for him it must feel the same; it has been long. Too long. Perhaps they should give it another go..?

Angelica is about to ask. But, Boris isn’t looking at her at all now; turned away towards the open door, throat bobbing and muscled arms still enveloped around her, tense. It’s only when she frees herself and steps around that she notices they are not alone: Yakov is on their couch, smoking a cigarette.

Good.

_Good._

Time to take charge. Time for a little _hard_ love. Because she has tried to be soft and kind, but too much of that has gotten them nowhere for too, too long. Angelica takes Boris’ hand, and leads him to her husband.

He watches them, eyes gleaming with an unnatural light. Stamps out his cigarette before they reach him, and sits back to make space. _For Boris_ ; she decides, as she pushes him forward. “Husband,” Angelica is damn proud of how professional her voice sounds, even without a stitch of clothing on her, “I think you have done our charge a great disservice.”

She stares at the pair, waiting for them to move. Too long, and Yakov- his posture betraying very little. Small tremors that could be anything from anger to rage to drunk tremors or madness his only movement. Then, he reaches up. One hand easily grabbing the back of Boris’s neck when he takes the hint, easily, and bends down. 

Reaching and pulling in, until their foreheads touch, and Yakov sputters, a hard-to understand one word. She decides, after a moment of hesitation, that he echoed ‘disservice’ back at her. And she freezes, wondering if he is too drunk, or not drunk enough, for this to pass. For this to _work._ Yet his thumb is trailing at Bori’s lip again, and he looks so lost and old that she, despite her best efforts, nearly feels sorry. So, Angelica tries one more time. “To you and him both, husband.”

Again, that eery beat too long of waiting, where she wonders what she can do; where she knows this is the only way left for them, and yet also fears Yakov would not. Will not go here.

But then, Yakov is kissing Boris; scratching and pulling at naked shoulders like a drowning man. And Angelica thinks they can be okay. 


	15. Never had it so good.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She wakes up at dawn. Which is pretty early, considering it’s Russian high summer. Early even for her. Still, she rolls away from the heat of bodies and slides to the side. There is another long day ahead. A careful last scoot gets her to the side of their double bed, right leg over the side, gently, then her strong left. Now she braces, for the weight to chase the last of her medicine.
> 
> Angelica gets no further.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thank to my beta, personaljunkdrawer, who is as excited as I about the next chapter. <3  
> Also, I don't usually write with music playing. But this one was definitely to the beat of 'Hard out here' by Lily Allen.

She wakes up at dawn. Which is pretty early, considering it’s Russian high summer. Early even for her. Still, she rolls away from the heat of bodies and slides to the side. There is another long day ahead. A careful last scoot gets her to the side of their double bed, right leg over the side, gently, then her strong left. Now she braces, for the weight to chase the last of her medicine.

Angelica gets no further.

Two hands envelop her from behind, making her heart jump in a painful way. She blows out a stuttery high breath. Bites down before the weak, unladylike squeal can make it past her lips. Swallows, because there’s absolutely no reason to panic. It’s just. it’s...

“Staay.” Boris grumbles into her back.

Angelica swallows twice more, before she gets the word out of her sand-dry mouth. “Lazy,” she adminishes. Lightly; near as lightly as she’d intended.

Because he really is; lazy and getting more lazy every complacent day he spends with them. Snuggling like this; always wedging himself comfortable between husband and wife. Seeking warmth and touch without a hint of shame. She’d liken him to a particularly big wildcat that just discovered the beauty of domestication. But of course, when  _ those _ go on hunting trips they  _ do not _ forget you, nor their own name.

After long months with them, with Angelica and Yakov, Boris is getting  _ demanding. _ Downright spoiled. He doesn’t let go, just holds tighter and rubs his cheek against her. The thin material of her nightgown hardly protects her from his stubble at all. “Staay?” 

And Angelica almost laughs, almost gives in. Because even she is not immune to his constant manipulation. Even she has a soft-spot; though she knows it for the folly it is. But then he has to ruin it and pull at her; pull her in. Strong and demanding and oppressive. The fear is back, jumping out from her gut and she fights, elbows flailing. Near-screaming at him a hard, final “no!”

It works, thank god. He lets go.

She takes a breath, another. Angry at herself, at him. At it all. Not counting her time on the stage, these are Angelica’s  _ best _ years. The best she’s ever known. She is  _ happy _ . A little thing like this. Angelica reminds herself she is in control here… has more control than ever. More even than when she’d been the prima ballerina on tour. In control of her destiny, in control of who she loves…

When she’s calmed herself, she looks his way.

Boris is staring at the ceiling, prone on the mattress, completely still but for his jaw pumping. Chewing down words she knows he’d like to say. There’s no reason for him to speak those words, because she  _ knows _ . Already knows. He must realise because when she huffs, he blinks once then turns away. 

If she’s hit him anywhere, there’s no evidence. Not a mark on him Then again, she couldn’t hurt him if she tried, could she? Which is why  _ he _ needs to behave. He is too strong, too indestructible for this to work any other way. But of course, Boris has been with them long this time; over half a year. And he’s used to getting his way. Angelica really prefers him new-born and blank, though that is it’s own challenge. 

Boris slides further away, angry. Like some wounded, prideful beast. Buries himself in Yakov’s neck and starts nuzzling against the old man. Burrowing in back under their thin summer blanket. Annoyance takes hold of Angelica. How  _ spoiled  _ he’s become, at this point. And it’s all Yakov’s doing.

Here now, again, Yakov happily accepts being woken like this. Which he would never have taken from her or anyone else. Simply smiles and takes Boris to his chest and starts telling him again how wonderful he is. Softly kissing and petting. Why, it’s a wonder the creature’s head hasn’t taken off at this point, the way her husband  _ bloats his ego _ . 

Angelica grinds down on the annoyance. It’s still fine. Yakov deserves a little happiness. Boris too, though she worries when Vasily will come calling, asking who’s ruined his pride assassin; turned him into a sissy. Still, Angelica has never had it this good. Her own academy, teaching the girls. Boris, with them for months at a time. And Yakov, finally back on track.

Yes; Yakov obviously needs this, needed this bad. He’s pulled himself together, pulled his head out of his own arse. There’s a fire again to him, the desperation no longer tearing him apart. Replaced by determination, since the three of them came to this agreement.

_ None _ of them have ever had it this good.

And Yakov is old, by now. His body is full of aches and pains. But when he’s making love to Boris it’s like he’s still young and strong. Lives in the moment and enjoys himself, like any moment can be his last. Especially after a few of Angelica’s pills. Which she gladly shares. Much as he frustrates Angelica, she  _ does _ care for her husband. He deserves a spot of happiness.

Nonetheless Angelica has her ballet classes to teach. She prepares at a leisurely pace, waiting for her medicine to kick in, then walks the way through the halls slowly, to the studio. She can feel the grind, inside her ankle and it annoys her, even if it hardly hurts now. At the end of the day, after standing and demonstrating for so many hours... even  _ with _ an extra dose. Angelica is not looking forward to that walk back to her rooms. 

When winter kicks in, she might even need her walking stick again. And then what? Will she be able to dance at all?

No matter. She has a full class of girls to teach now. Two dozen nine-year olds, eager and hard-working. Slender and beautiful and pale. She envies them, yet sees them as her own children. The children she never could have; nicely mirrored by the parents no longer have. A whole class of orphans that dances to her whims twice a day.

They have other classes, of course. There’s a lot more for a young woman to learn. Languages, and geography, and math, psychology and, yes: self defence. Yes, it is Angelica’s dream to show the upper brass- the  _ men - _ how strong, how valuable a woman can be.

And Vasily? Lukin? They are fine with this. Let her control all of it.

Control the entire curriculum. 

Except for the doctor’s appointments. Daily doctor’s visits, in the morning and evening. Blood checks and charts in a completely new wing of the complex. Readings and tests and scans Angelica has no idea of what they mean or what they are for.

It’s a worry. 

Still, the doctors are attentive to her schedule. And the girls all seem in the best of health, so whatever they do with them can hardly be harmful. And today again, the girls file in, A good few minutes before belltole. Ready for the day. They change and start wrapping their feet and yes; even Boris makes it, with just a minute to spare. Slinks in and sits at his usual spot behind the piano.

But, he’s grumbling. She knows it as soons as she spots the way he puts his back to the instrument and bends forward, elbows on knees as he studies her girls. He watches them finish up, with a deep frown. And starts honestly scowling as she weighs them in. She doesn’t understand why he should; they are all perfectly healthy, for the doctors good at helping with their diets at least.

Still, Angelica ignores him, best she can, gestures for music and he obliges.

Boris has gotten good enough, at least, for this. He only knows a few whole compositions, but at least he knows them well after six months. This is the upside of having him around for an extended period. That, and how unhappy Yakov will get when he’s gone. How ridiculously sad he will be when Boris comes back and does not remember him. 

It’s when one of the girls takes a fall that he truly fucks up. Instead of staying at the piano, he goes to the fallen girl faster than Angelica can. She tells him not to fuss, to let the girl be. And he at least releases her. But only takes half a step back as Angelica instructs her to remove her pointe shoes, spies along with too much worried interest. Then, there’s a practically outraged intake of breath of him when he sees. 

Oh, it’s hardly pretty. There’s blood of course, and the big toe’s nail has come loose. The girls must have done poorly for days because there’s also several sores and blisters. 

Yet there’s hardly a reason to make such a fuss. Boris is scaring the other girls; sowing discord with his unruly behavior. Angelica simply admonishes the girl for failing to wrap her toes right and helps her do them up again.

Boris, of course, fails to keep his mouth shut any longer. “She needs a doctor.” 

Because, he thinks, girls are weak. Because he thinks he has a say. Because he thinks he can just speak his mind like the spoiled brat he is. “She needs to wrap right, then she can continue.” 

“Angelica...” he hisses at her, in no more than a stage whisper.

“Oh dear, Boris, do you think this is anything special? I’ve had my nails come off loads of times.” At his angry scowl, she claps her hands. “Girls, who else has had a nail come off before?” 

A show of hands puts her somewhere at half the class. That does make her frown, because they’ve only started en pointe for a few months now. She’ll have to give another advanced class at wrapping, Angelica thinks. Still, “this girl is strong. It will be fine.”

“I don’t care, she _ is  _ a little girl. Let me carry her to the doctor.” 

“You see. This is where you men always get confused. You may be bigger, and stronger. But when it comes to pain, women are stronger.” 

The girl in question is nothing but proud; gets right back up and dances on. When Angelica throws a victorious glance Boris’s way however, he looks away scowling.

And, again, he refuses to stay quiet. As soon as they make their way and meet up with Yakov for the evening meal, he  _ rats her out. _

And Yakov, in true form, admonishes her like a child. “Sounds to me like you’re being irresponsible. Aren’t those girls too young for pointe?” 

“They are strong.” Angelica all but hisses. God, sometimes she wishes she could sew that tattle-tale’s mouth closed. Boris looks down right smug. Yakov, star-struck, runs a finger over his cheek. Two soldiers, at the far table, look away studiously. What a heady thing it must be, for Yakov, to be able to show his affection for another man without fear of repercussion. He’s growing down right overbearing from the high of it.

“They are my girls, I know best.” her voice is hard and confident. But, Angelica worries. She has very little clout when it comes down to it. Very little leverage. If Yakov were to object to her methods to Lukin.. His good friend Lukin… She doesn’t know what way it would go.

“Best would be if they’d just be left to play and have some fun.” 

Angelica gives Boris her most haughty stare. “And what would you know about what’s best for little girls?” 

That stops Boris’s righteous crusade, at least. Leaves him frowning at the table, opening his mouth twice as if to say something. Possibly a clever comeback. And yet, Angelica realises she is still at the mercy of the whims of men. “I’ll give them some time to heal,” she promises her husband. “Don’t worry about it.”

Luckily, Yakov only really cares and worries about Boris. 


	16. circles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time is like a wheel.
> 
> He wakes up, and he is nothing. Knows nothing, feels nothing. Just a process spinning on idle. Conscious, but not aware of anything. 
> 
> special thanks 2 my betas, personaljunkdrawer and gabby!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi guys, very proud of this chapter. but it's one that kind of deserves all the trigger tags:  
> TW: murder, identity erasure, dubious consent and torture. maybe more I missed..  
> so. keep that in mind!

Time is like a wheel.

He wakes up, and he is nothing. Knows nothing, feels nothing. Just a process spinning on idle. Conscious, but not aware of anything. 

And then there is vision, sound. Words; words he can understand though he did not know  _ of _ words before. And touch. A great, grand thing. Like an ignition. He is  _ not  _ alone in limbo-nothing. He is not nothing. There are things; there are others. People. And he had known that, surely? 

They tell him things, and he has never heard these words before. He has heard these exact words before. New target. Dangerous man. Will destroy world order if left unchecked.

Unchecked is a  _ nice  _ word. It means  _ alive _ . 

He does not; leave the man alive, that is. It is easy. Shooting a person, talking and gesturing at a crowd. Single bullet to the brain. While he speaks of mercy and equality and a better world for their children. Easy. Anyone could do it. It is easy. 

Easy. The words he hears, before he pulls the trigger, he has heard before too. So much the same, every time. Still, this is a different man. And he, whomever  _ he _ is, does know he should not judge. They had explained to him. He is a criminal. He would not know right from wrong. That is why  _ he _ takes the shots, and  _ they _ tell him who to shoot. So he’ll shoot those that need shooting to protect the world. Do good. It is easy.

It is hard.

Yet he does it, and he gets away and comes back to the extraction point. People yell. People scream. Panic. Anger. Their champion is dead, their leader destroyed. Riots, fires and fights rage through the city. These are all familiar. He moves easily through such chaos. Untouched and separate. Ears dulled to the screams like words through glass. The armored leather bars him from feeling the heat; his spirit dulled to this fake world. He comes to the extraction point and waits. And scowls. He is _ always _ early to the extraction point. He does not remember being late. He does not remember being  _ early _ either, but he always  _ is. _ He knows. 

It is... An annoyance. If time is like a wheel, should it not propel him forward? Instead of spinning in the same exact position for ever? Stuck going over the same motions again and again?

Why is he here at all? Why does he need to kill dangerous people, if the next dangerous person will simply get up and stand in his place? It seems pointless. A waste. Why not just give these people what they want? What is it exactly anyway, that is so destructive that it can not be given at any cost?

Yet, he does what he is told. And he is rewarded. This too is familiar. They give him his name; they give him real clothes and real touch and a place to live and a  _ life _ and his friend.

He is Boris. He had known he was Boris. Or, he had  _ almost _ remembered. And he’d also remembered a friend. Almost; almost remembered Angelica with the beautiful blond curls that he sort-of remembered and they’d kiss him and—

Time is like a circle, all the way. One side goes up, while the other goes down. But, this vehicle is not moving; the wheels spin, spin—him and Angelica—, yet they go nowhere. It’s terrible, it’s wonderful. It’s scary, it’s beautiful. It’s soft and pleasant but painful and all so very, very familiar. And it’s a circle, spinning in place. A ferris wheel that never stops; never lets him off. But he can see the stars from here and—

He dances with Angelica. He sits outside on the veranda and drinks with Yakov, and lets the old man touch his face when he’s too drunk to remember that it isn’t proper. He practices the piano and is frustrated by the hand that is wrong —and that’s also familiar. Also like it’s always been.

And.

When it’s night and they sleep together; all in one bed with him in the middle, it starts. He remembers  _ dying _ , and he remembers  _ living _ and remembers  _ killing; _ victims in his crosshair or under his knife or choking as he strangled them, like that one coroner that screamed at him,  _ ‘No, no! You are dead. You are dead! I just pronounced you dead! You are a ghost, a-ghoul-a-corpse!’ _

And the man wasn’t wrong, was he? One arm’s still stuck in limbo; cut off a corpse and hinting at where he’ll go back to eventually, where he came from... yet _ both  _ arms, and all of him spreads death like the  _ plague... _

This is the bad part. This is where he starts to _ think. _ Why is he here? Why does he keep going over the same motions again and again? Why does he need to go abroad and kill people in a country he’s not  _ from _ but  _ knows. _ Knows really, really intimately and what kind of order is he working towards? What kind of order needs for men talking about justice and equality to be shot? If that’s what it takes, if that’s what it takes then is that order worth anything at all? Just let it go already. Let it  _ die. _

He knows he wouldn’t understand; isn’t smart enough to understand. Because the general explained that he is a criminal and his wires are crossed. And—it’s too late now, isn’t it? The deed is done. But Boris still thinks and  _ thinks. _ Mind going circles and circles till he feels nothing, like he’s back in his scaffolds in the dark and he cannot take that. Because this is the _ up _ part. The top of his circle; this is where he gets to feel.

Like a human being. So, he nuzzles Yakov at his side till he regains consciousness through the haze of alcohol and the drugs Angelica’s been sharing with him. Yakov is  _ always _ nice, to talk with, to hold. They are quiet, careful not to wake Angelica, who will be less sympathetic. Yakov and him crawl out of bed and to their couch. And the old lieutenant will hold his face in his hands and say: “my poor Bakushka. Look what they have done to you.”

Or Yakov will call him Nikita or Boris, or even Danska. And he wonders if he was any of those people, or none at all. All of them, or nothing. If he still is them, or if he is  _ still nothing. _ Because even this world, in this base that should be his home; even here, he feels like he cannot touch, cannot  _ feel _ . Hardly can register the rough thumb stroking his lip. So, he whispers to Yakov for  _ more _ . Begs him to make him feel. Undress and squeeze and pinch and —yes, push inside him and move inside of him hard, harder. Make it fucking  _ hurt _ … 

And he knows damn well Angelica is awake by now. That she can hear them. But she stays, quiet and still, in the other room. And Boris wishes she would come, scream at them. Maybe kick him in the ribs, like she had that one time, last week —and maybe also last year and the year before that; when she too had a few too many to drink.— And he swears this time he’ll not just laugh at her. That he’ll pull her down and kiss her as well, that he’ll ignore the compulsion that tells him  _ no _ . Because Angelica _ likes _ to be kissed. Though she never lets him, until she _ lets _ him...

Time is like a picket fence. A hemmed off piece of muddy farm-stead, that he’s eaten bare and eats bare again like a dumb sow trudging in circles without even remembering having gone over the exact same spot time and time again. But he knows, **_he_** **knows.** Even if he does not _remember_ : there is grass on the other side. Even if he cannot remember ever having seen, ever having tasted...

Not quite.

There are little girls now, in Russia. They dance to his music, when he plays the piano. He thinks there have always been little girls, and they have always danced. But, Boris thinks they dance wrong. They frown and work and slave. Till their feet bleed. The _ y never _ laugh. Not really —only fake serene smiles that are wrong _ -wrong! _

He  _ knows _ you should laugh when you dance. Little girls should laugh when they dance. And he worries for them, because Angelica teaches them the same as him. But they are small and breakable and still so very, very brave. What are they here for? Why are they needed? Why does he think they are like him; that they would replace him if his circles ever run out?

What can little girls do, that he can not?

Time runs it’s arch. And there is still dancing and playing the piano. And Yakov, Yakov too, talks with him of books and literature and that is nice. But now there is also shooting practice and weapons training and fighting styles. So many; all apparently new. Though he is  _ too good  _ at all of them. And he doesn’t really need technique when his strength and reaction times are unparalleled. And, sometimes, he remembers the lessons from the last cycle, and doesn’t need instructions repeated.

But he also knows that remembering means his time is running out. That he has gone almost full circle. And that he should enjoy what time is left. But, he is moody and curt. He’ll cling to Yakov for comfort, and dance harder with Angelica to forget. Make love to the both of them till they tell him off; no more.

Well, they are not wrong: soon, there will be no more...

Yet, this time. When it is time to return to Syberia. When he has to go; Yakov comes with him. 

Sits next to him on the plane, where they leave them alone, in the chairs lined against the wall. And Yakov holds his hand, thumb tracing the back of it. Over Boris’s real hand, making goosebumps break out. And he’s still half scared by Yakov’s unhidden, obvious affection. A public display while he’s sober, when before he’d been private and ashamed. But now, Yakov doesn’t let go, not even when a soldier passes them, or when personnel offers them an in-flight meal. 

And that’s never happened before either; or Boris doesn’t think it did. It makes him happy, it gives him hope. 

It scares him so much.

When they arrive there’s the usual barrage of tests; trial runs, benchmarks checked. Bodyfluids demanded. Yakov stays with him through all of it. Smiling nervously, yet comforting. There’s questions and forms and still, at the end. The Chair. Which he’d  _ known, _ which he’d feared. Though getting set aflame might be better than to be left in the dark; to be nothing. Maybe. Right now, he’s not sure? They are too different, too the same. The start and the end of it all. And it’s nice, at least. That it’s a chair? Because he knows he’d spook if they tried to make him lay down, if they wanted him prostrate for this but...—

Time is like a wheel.

He wakes up with ice in his veins, and he is nothing. Knows nothing, feels nothing. Just a process spinning on idle. Aware, but not aware of anything. Left in the dark without sound or feeling; noting. When the ice in his veins thaws the uncontrollable shivers start, then quiet again into nil. Leaving him without a body; without any sensation. Even the feeling of restraints shaking against his skin, the burning in his chest falling away. In its place is idle emptiness, an endless stretch of  _ nothing  _ where he wishes for the pain to return before he forgets even  _ that _ .

Until, vision, hearing, smell,  _ touch.  _ Glorious  _ touch, _ bringing him alive.

And words; had he known about words? No matter. New target. Dangerous man. Will destroy world order if left unchecked.

Unchecked is such a  _ pretty  _ word. It means alive. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading <3 bonus points for those who know who got murdered. beta got it so it's not impossible ;)


	17. literature

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Really? You’re teaching him poetry?” 
> 
> “And literature.” 
> 
> “And literature…” Angelica straightens back up, lets her cane fall to her side again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to grey 4 beta work!  
> I usually read it through one last time, but it looks good and honestly, I'm tired. what a wild ride these last few days have been. Hope you are all well, and please, enjoy!

“Poetry?” Angelica lets her voice carry every hint of cynical doubt she has in that, blatantly honest to him. Steps forward to loom over his office desk, her walking cane coming to rest on the tabletop. Both her hands resting on the length of polished wood as she stares down her nose at him—at her husband. She is, after all, not in the business of getting bullshitted. And this, this is utter poppykosh. “Really? You’re teaching him poetry?” 

“And literature _.”  _

_ “ _ And _ literature _ …” Angelica straightens back up, lets her cane fall to her side again. Stares down at him, on his couch in his separate quarters that stink of booze and old man; listens to the sounds of the piano down the hall, in her dance studio. Her second years; all thirteen of them going through their paces as she instructed them to, before stepping out.

Angelica does not need this... whatever this.. this  _ mess _ with Yakov is. The hour before this she had reserved for her third year girls. Ten beautiful, hard working girls of around nine years old. Last week, she’d still had fifteen. Last week, five did not get up in the morning. Were found dead; unexplained and unmourned and Angelica knows there’s more to it, though the doctors will not tell her. Today, none of the ten left over showed for class. When she went to find them in their dorms, her brave hard-working girls had still been in bed. Awake, yet hardly well.

She is happy she instructed Boris to stay and let the second year’s in. if he’d seen the state they’d been in, Angelica just knows he would have tried to nurse them again. Their creature is soft enough on her girls, though she’s explained time and again his mollycoddling will only hurt them in the end.

So now, Yakov, on top of it all. Whatever is going on with him.

Boris is playing Fur Elise again; he’s getting better but that tune does  _ tire. _ Grates on her nerves, every god-awful time. Yet, Yakov sits here, in the half-dark. And listens to that damn piece time after time, making notes in that little book open in front of him and doesn’t even notice...

And Boris... the American’s curriculum… now consisting of Poetry and Music and Dancing, and none of these seem like something their commanders would be interested in. None of these can be what they seem. But Angelica knows the point to dancing, to the piano playing, with that off-white fake arm. But  _ Poetry?  _ Poetry she doesn’t understand, but whatever implications there...  _ scare _ her.

What is Yakov up to? What is he doing? Why was he selected for this job, while she was kept out of the loop? Why had Yakov come home from Siberia alone, without any answers? Why had Yakov come to greet Boris, when he returned home? Why is he suddenly closed off and secretive? While she thought they had a rapport, when Angelica had thought they had finally found a common ground? Is it the guilt again, when Angelica had thought they were over that? 

So he’s back in his office, alone. Drinking. Depressed. She looks down, takes in his disheveled appearance. His near-bald head, slight sheen of perspiration likely caused by alcohol. And wonders  _ why _ . She thought they were doing so well...

Yakov grunts, tries to straighten and put up a brave face. “Don’t dismiss it just because you do not understand it. Poetry is the window to the soul to the subconscious. Besides. You probably don’t know this,” and here, Yakov has the audacity to look smug, ”but Boris actually  _ likes _ to read.” 

“Really? She drawls, unconvinced. When Boris comes home from missions -from Siberia, he’s always hungry for any form of attention. For dancing, for loving, for touch. For  _ anything. _ That he would like someone talking to him, no matter what the subject? “Yakov, husband? What he needs is  _ you. _ ” 

Yakov grunts, another few lines of Cyrillic in his little book. A new, well-built dummy with leather binding and virgin white pages. “That is why it’s good, that I get to travel with him. You should be happy.” 

“Yakov,” Angelica admonishes. “It is not the gift you’ve got that worries me. It is the price you paid for it. What do they want in return, husband? What does  _ Vasily  _ want you to do..?”

Again, he writes in the little leather book. Turns a page, back; checking. Then making another few slow notes. It occurs to Angelica that he is avoiding her. Refusing to look her in the eyes. Not even when he finally speaks. “Just this, Angelica. I’ve not given away any of our secrets; any of our plans. After all,” And this time he does look up at her ascence, accusingly. “Do we have any plans to betray? If we do, I know nothing.” 

Angelica, steps closer again, puts her empty hand on the bureau, leans over him carefully. Then she breathes in deeply, going for calm. They were doing  _ so well _ . Angelica doesn’t  _ understand.  _ Why would he draw away again, when she had finally broken that stalemate between them? When she had given him the thing that was supposed to make him happy?

“Sci-Fi is his favourite. Ivan Yefremov, the Strugatsky brothers, or even imported Asimov. He’s eating it right up. And we write together sometimes. It must be pleasant, having something to remember..” he trails of, shrugs, eyes falling back to the book. Yakov closes the book with an air of reverence, fingers the red leather cover a moment before he sits back to grab the single bottles of Vodka, to his side.

“What happened in Siberia? What did you negotiate, husband?” Angelica bites at him, accusingly. “What are you not telling me, husband?” 

“We talked. We read. My cousin thought I might be able to calm Boris’s spirit. There’s power in words, wife. But don’t worry, I didn’t tell them anything.” 

“Did you know..” Angelica nearly shuts down, still unwilling to divulge the tidbit she learned. Her old days in the resistance, days of secrecy still clinging to her. “Did you know, they had one one of those Nazi scientists over? One of those operation paperclip cockroaches that they let get away..? Did you..?” 

Yakov shrugs again, still not looking at her. “Does it matter? They are all bastards, those scientists? All of them deserve to burn in hell.” His eyes are stuck to that little bottom of his bottle now, observing the liquid swirling around in his hand. A slow blink. “But don’t worry about it, my lady. I am getting there; I will have their trust, or enough soon, that they will give me their  _ secrets.  _ Once I have them…” now, he does look up, eyes locking with Angelica’s; pleading. “You, me, and Boris. We will escape them, yes?” 

Angelica hates to lie. Hates to believe in pipe-dreams too. It’s not going to happen. She’s known that from the start. But, she can see, if Yakov doesn’t have this.. He will break. Completely. So, “once we know enough to have a chance, yes. But,” and this; this is important. “Do  _ not _ trust  _ Lukin _ ! Do not trust Vasily. Do you hear? Do not trust them with our secrets. Do not make deals with them.”

He laughs at that. “Oh, I will not. Don’t worry, wife.” the bottle, finally released by her, he brings to his lips, swallowing whole those last few mouthfuls. A few drops run from the corner of his mouth, down his jaw. Yakov rubs them away with his sleeve. “I will not; I  _ would  _ not. But, what I fail to understand is, why I should not, while you  **_do_ ** ...” 

Angelica frowns, wondering again, if she can trust him with this. Yakov is not a bad man.. But, men are still men. Brazen and unable to shut up; always convinced they know what’s right. And Yakov... Yakov is worse than most in these ways. Still, “because I am the better liar.” 

“They do say never trust a woman.” He laughs at that, hollow. It’s meant to cut, she realises.

“Don’t. Don't you  _ dare. _ ” Something breaks; something deep inside of her. And Angelica suddenly wonders if they are on the same side at all. If they ever were. Again, she needs to ask: “Why poetry. What do you write down? What do you have  _ him _ write down?” 

“Go to your dancing girls, wife. This is _ literature. _ You wouldn’t understand.” 

Angelica sneers; near-soundlessly. Yet her warning goes unnoticed. Is met by disinterest and grudging ignorance. Yakov’s attention is on the book again, fingers trailing the cover lovingly. Like a boon, or a loved one. Like he’d trail Boris, whenever he’s close enough.

When Yakov takes another swing from his bottle, Angelica pounces. Grabs the book, and opens it to a random page. “Longing for daybreak, the total darkness. No feeling. Thinking both hands have rusted away...” 

Yakov jumps to his feet, seething. The bottle, he flicks her way. Yet she dances, and it crashes to the wall behind her, without coming anywhere near its intended target. Yakov really should leave the sharpshooting to Boris; he is terrible at it. 

Angelica steps back as Yakov shoots his chair back to move around his bureau. “This crap yours? It doesn’t even  _ rhyme. _ Like a dramatic four-year old trying to use big words describing losing his cookie.”

“You, least of all, do  _ not _ have any right to make fun of Boris.” Yakov is in front of her now; quicker than she’d given him credit for. Looming and suddenly ever so big.  _ “Give that back.” _

They stand off in silence. Suddenly. No sound anywhere, it seems. But Yakov’s heavy breathing. Alcohol fueled rage and stupidity. And angelica feels that sliver of fear; knows her chances, calculates easily how poorly, how terribly anything would go, beyond this point. Her ankle, already warning her, with that slight slide as she adjusts her position. Letting her know, as she straightens her spine. The stick in her hands, useless at this close a range. Already caught between their bodies like a slither of a shield. She cannot fight; she cannot run. And, yet. “No...” 

There's a struggle, Yakov’s hands grabbing at her, turning her effortlessly. Angellica, pulling, shoving with her walking cane. Then, Yakov turns with the book in his arms, and Angelica is sent flying; her hip hits the desk, something clatters to the ground she turns; fear, for her bad leg as she flies, still mid-air. Now backward. Legs and arms bracing for impact. Already aware that she will not do well, that her ankle will not hold . Angelica hits... 

Hits something soft, weight still off her feet, warm, behind her entire back, holding her under her armpits. It is only now she registers that the piano music has long-since stopped. 

“Yeesh, Yakov. This ain’t no way to treat a lady!” 

Angelica’s thankfulness is gone, turns to stone at his presumption. weak. “Unhand me Boris,” she straightens, brushes off. “And what, Fool boy, is...This...” she gestures, resolutely. At the red leather book. Her eyes burning how stupid are you, boy? Putting down your thoughts on paper? That book is not  _ yours. _ Will you now give away your soul, when they already own your body and mind?” 

Boris shrugs. Instead, it is Yakov that answers. “I told him to put his feelings to words. And he’s done so beautifully.” Yakov straightens, gesturing at the door that is already open. “It is not our problem you lack the literacy to appreciate  _ poetry. _ ” 

“Husband, you are a fool. You hope to free your Boris, yet all you do is tie him up further.”

“The book is with me. I will guard it. I..”

“Lady,” Boris interrupts, “Angelica, you must understand. I need to.. I cannot remember.” When she pushes off and away, all he does is bend down, grab her walking stick for her to take. His real hand, on her elbow keeping her on her feet easily. “And.. I trust Yakov…” 

Power in words indeed. “When will you learn to  _ shut _ up?” 

Sometimes she feels the urge to reach out; to grab his lips and squeeze them shut, to take up a sewing kit and seal those lips forever. Angelica throws one angry glare back, just in time to catch Yakov’s victorious expression. Boris  _ trusts _ Yakov? Gathering what little dignity she has left, she pushes back her disheveled hair and breathes in. Takes one step, only to nearly lose her balance, bad ankle acting up at the worst time. Trusts Yakov, yet not her..?

Boris jumps forward, hand again out to reach her. But this time, she is ready. She defends herself. Strikes once, with her cane, and steps back. ”Don't touch me!”

This time, she hits him. Manages to get him off-guard. Manages to bypass his inhuman reflexes and lands a hit. Right in his face. Though it does nothing but to make him look disappointed.

Angelica strides out, angry and confused. 


	18. negotiations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Yakov, what’s happening?” 
> 
> Yakov doesn’t have to say it though. As soon as Yakov looks her way, eyes hooded with guilt, it clicks. 

It is only a few days later, when Boris and the piano teacher have the studio to themselves, that Angelica, from her quarters, suddenly realises the tones of Fur Elize are breaking up. Too loud, too hard; a piano screaming in pain. On its last death throes. A man’s voice joins in, as Angelica hurries down the hall, back to her studio.

The piano teacher is at the door, yelling in a way that suggests he’s trying to calm Boris, but is actually panicking himself. As Angelica pushes past, she finds Boris on the piano stool in front of the poor, butchered piano. Strings and piano keys and woodchucks are scattered around him. His form is still as stone, wrapped around his left arm. But at least his screaming has stopped, the ballet studio eerily quiet but for his panting breaths.

Angelica pushes past the teacher, but finds herself grabbing onto the doorframe, unwilling or unable to step any closer. The sight of him, something about his posture, makes her self-preservation instincts flare in warning. As she waits, Boris groans softly. Slouched over on the piano stool, over the remains of what was once a shiny black piano. He slightly turns her way in some half-way aborted gesture, abandoned in favour of guarding his left arm even more jealously. 

“What happened?” 

She asks it of Boris, yet the piano teacher answers. “I quit. My beautiful Steinway! He killed her.”

Angelica only spares the man a short frown in disapproval. He is lucky to be alive. Why, if Boris had lashed out, like he used to... Hell, that teacher would have looked as bad as his beloved Steinway. Yet, he has not been harmed. That should be counted as a win. Progress. Angelica very carefully steps forward, one arm reaching out though they are still a good ten steps separated. “What happened, Boris?”

He doesn’t answer. Only grunts and starts rocking slowly, the arm; his fake left arm, still wrapped protectively within. Nearly completely hidden, though she is approaching from his left side. Angelica stalls again, heart in her throat, as she squints at it. Fingers, somewhere inside his armpit. Trembling. 

Only when Yakov pushes past, with a scowl her way full of disappointment and condemnation, does she get a look at his hidden left hand. Boris opens his posture minutely, arms relaxing and face turning Yakov’s way with some sort of desperate hope. Like her husband could do anything about whatever sickness could touch an undying such as Boris. And it must be a sickness, that left arm: the skin around his knuckles flakes, his nails weep black blood. And the smell! Angelica steps away in revulsion.

But not Yakov. He walks up to Boris, goes down on his haunches on creaking knees, ignoring the piano’s decimated remains behind him. Puts his hands on Boris’s knees and rubs them gently. “What’s wrong?” 

“Hurts.” is all he says. Yakov just groans in sympathy, sliding down to his knees and taking Boris’s head in his hands. “I know. Oh, my dearest, I know…” 

Angelica cannot help the flare of exasperation. Yakov has spoiled their charge rotten at this point. Will Daddy try and kiss it better next? Boris just destroyed their only piano. Getting a replacement will not be easy. Also, is Yakov out of his mind? He knows just how dangerous Boris can be, when he… but, wait. There’s more. Yakov knows. Oh yes, he knows what is ailing Boris. “Yakov, what’s happening?” 

Yakov doesn’t have to say it though. As soon as Yakov looks her way, eyes hooded with guilt, it clicks. 

At her urging, Yakov secures them a seat on the next provision’s flight to Siberia, a literal air-bridge ferrying personnel and wares and info to and fro at this point. Siberia is a place she’d never wanted to return to. But, she  _ has  _ to. Because all of her Third Years are dead, and Boris? 

She marches right from the plane to Vasily’s offices, cane in hand and thankful that workers have at least cleared her path of snow. Soldiers stare as their little entourage passes: Angelica in the middle, walking cane flipping in hand with every odd step; Boris and Yakov at her flanks like silent shadows. She pays none any heed, clad in the armor of righteous fury. When she reaches the facilities --grown again with several new buildings-- she waltzes right into the new, statuesque offices and glides right past the reception desk without a backward glance. 

Vasily’s secretary jumps to her feet, squeaking and yelling. But with Yakov and Boris blocking her way, she cannot pass to cut them off. At Vasily’s private office Angelica doesn’t knock, just barges right in. And, any doubt she had that it was that snake of a cousin, Vas --that he’s the one behind this terrible mess-- it’s gone the moment she sees him flinch. Still, Vasily is a pro at this. A moment later he’s schooled his features as he reclines behind his stupidly expensive mahogany desk with false bravado. “The Lady Angelica. Never imagined I’d see you back here.”

“Look at him,” teeth bared she points towards Boris, just as he enters right behind the secretary. Yakov, obviously still weighted down by his own failures, enters last. Angelica registers all this from the corner of her eye, because she will not look away from the General. Stare accusatory and hard, clashing against the brazen man’s own unapologetic sneer. Because Vasily had already known, hadn't he..? What his little experimentation would cause. “Look. At. Him.” 

At her next gesture, Boris sighs loudly, then starts dutifully stripping off his upper clothing; coat, jacket, shirt. He’s still slowly unbuttening his undershirt when Angelica can no longer hold her tongue, fearful of buckling under this staring contest by the simple virtue of Vasily  _ not giving a single fuck _ . “You had him frozen again, didn’t you?” 

_ Frozen. _ They had frozen Boris. A test, obviously. That is why he had been called away, yet had not had a mission. But, surely, Vasily would understand what would happen to his donor arm... The flesh one, that had been serving them so well for  _ years _ now. Harvested no doubt from some unlucky soldier or poor convicted criminal. Strong, till now. But no normal flesh could survive such a process. Flash-freezing, then thawning. No; there’s  _ no way  _ the arm will hold up to that.

Indeed, the evidence is clear on his left arm, veins glowing with an eerie blue that cannot be natural. The seam too, halfway between shoulder and biceps, like a band of infected flesh, where the scarring had seemed to settle down finally in the last years. And, the skin flaking, the nails, a pure black when the unhealthy color had receded to the roots before.

Vasily finally, finally looks; eyes turning away from Angelica somehow without admitting defeat, and studies the obvious signs in Boris’s flesh. Then he sighs, with an indifferent shrug, at which the secretary, a small tacky thing with fake curls and suspiciously American high heels, steps out and closes the door. “I suppose some damage was to be expected.”

Anger, cold and hot all at once, bubbles up in her gut, bubbles up to her mouth in an indignant hiss. “Damage? You are  _ wasting _ him. Just as you are wasting my girls.”

Vasily looks up from fiddling with the bulky intercom on his desk, like he only just noticed her. He presses a button, with another casual shrug. “I hardly think I owe you any accountability.” 

Rage, pure and unadulterated. For his disregard. For his denigratory, obvious male chauvinism. He would think her weak? While she is stronger than any of them? Angelica takes a deep breath, tries to calm her thumping heart. She is angry, yet she needs to channel that anger. Use it. This is her chance. Her one last chance to bargain for more. With both her boys on her side. Yakov --quiet and sullen, and Boris --twitchy and agitated, she feels powerful enough to try. “I would rather call you out now myself, than wait until the Kremlin _ tires _ of your _ incompetence _ and sends us all to the  _ Gulach _ .”

There is a creak of his gloves --Vasily, for all of his black heart, at least seems to feel the cold of Siberia well enough-- a setting of the General’s jaw, before he pretends to relax, accepting her challenge. “You are being  _ hysterical, _ my lady. Perhaps the hormonal changes of the body are speaking for you?” He shrugs again, just as a moment later a doctor arrives. With a homoagnimonious gesture, Vasily encompasses Boris. “The doctors will fix the problem. It is of no importance.” 

Angelica squares her jaw, staring down the man. Her ankle cries at her, but she stands firm. Vasily affects only untouched indifference. “Oh, stop the dramatics, woman. It’s just the arm. It was never good enough." The General shrugs. “And I’ll replace your orphan girls as well. There are _ always _ more orphan girls.”

“Not like them. Not like they were.” of course, Vasily cannot understand such commitment. If Vasily ever cared about anything but himself, it would have to be his career. Angelica stalls, making a sudden, eye-opening discovery. “You do not see their use. You only use my girls as a test-case for your soldiers."

“Elementarily.” he snorts. “One will not be winning any wars with a bunch of  _ girls _ for soldiers.”

“War as we know it, perhaps.” she pauses; more for dramatics than anything else. A slow smile spreads on her lips, suddenly sure of her angle. Suddenly sure of victory. “But we are no longer fighting a conventional war, are we, General? Where are the front lines? Who do we kill? How do we gain ground...? Do you even understand the rules of engagement in this new, Cold War we fight?”

Jackpot. A button, pushed just right. Vasily, in one smooth movement, jumps to his feet. Slams the desk so hard his utensils shudder. “Now listen here!”

“But, you already know that.” Angelica too, pushes up higher. Too close; the desk between them a chasm that she now seeks to cross. Brazen, perhaps. But, needs must. “The scientists, the tests, the projects... This is why you are so desperately working for more. Looking for more. You would have an army like Boris if you could. And yet, perhaps, this is not a war won with armies at all...”

Vasily glowers at her a moment longer, eyes jumping from her to Boris to Yakov and back to her. Then he visibly takes a breath, looks down at his polished mahogany desk, fingering the wood as he pouts down at it, lips working once, then again. He sighs, as he sits himself down very deliberately. 

A knock on the door, sudden but obviously expected, heralds a balding man in a lab coat. He only half steps in, before nodding to Boris and stepping out. Yakov, finally, seems to snap out of his daze. He exchanges a look with Angelica; at least this time he seems aware he should not let Boris out of his sight when there’s doctors involved. Angelica gives them both a curt nod, then concentrates all her attention to her Nephew-by-marriage. Someone needs to be watching Boris’s back, but she misses the support deerly already. 

But, Vasily is... At the very least intrigued. Only after the door is closed, only after Angelica sits down slowly herself, does he speak up: “pray tell, what are you suggesting...?”

Angelica fists the handle of her walking stick so hard she can hear her knuckles crack, sits up and forces her voice strong and sure. “You already know the wars we will find ourselves in now cannot be won with _ soldiers. _ The world is changing, General. Power and violence may be your forte, but this war is about  _ information _ . About maneuvering, about delicacy, about theft and manipulation. Listening and whispering in the right ears... This is a war for a woman to fight. A girl in the right place, maybe a little support by Boris. Providing he’s left with enough of a brain to remember the mission.” 

“You think you can do better, even on our American?” A challenge, she cannot help but accept.

“At manipulating a child? Yes, I think I can do better.” She breathes in, quick, promising, “In fact, I’ll manipulate a  _ grown _ super soldier for you. Think how much  _ more  _ one could achieve.” 

Vasily signs, sits back and looks up at the ceiling, considering. “Not freezing him is not an option. Not any longer. Our cycles between wipes are getting shorter, the window for missions as well. Right now, I need three weeks to prepare him. I hardly ever have that much warning in advance. After about six months he is no longer stable enough to be sent out. Starts asking  _ questions. _ Starts refusing orders. How would you do better?”

She winks at him; audacity and self-confidence thrown back. “Trust in a woman’s whiles. I guarantee I can get any mission from the Kremlin done within time limits, a hundred percent success rate. Let me worry about the details.”

“Huh.” Vasily is a businessman, after all. He can hardly pass up such a great deal.

Business, she remembers. “But, I get complete control over Boris’s schedules. Physicals, maintenance, research, everything. And, you do not touch my girls.” 

“We’ve been making great strides with those girls.” Vasily pauses. “Which is why it is such a shame we lost our first batch. Very well. The girls and Boris can be under Yakov Karpov’s command. Supervision and conditioning is with Lukin.”

Vasily grins. “Don’t fail me, lady.” 


	19. sample

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Wait, wait.” Boris’s voice actually jumps. She could laugh, if this wasn’t past exhausting by now. “That’s not supposed to go down there!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ho boy do I have something for you guys today!!
> 
> added trigger warnings:  
> dubcon and reverence to non-con!

“Wait, wait.” Boris’s voice actually jumps. She could laugh, if this wasn’t past exhausting by now. “That’s not supposed to go down there!”

“Relax.” Angelica looks down at Boris’s face in her lap, smiles down at him with her most motherly, assuring smile; face to face, nose to nose, upside-down. He answers with his own, shaky grin. Blue-grey eyes blink up at her, then side away. He turns his head slightly trying to look down, tangling the mess of his hair against her silk bathrobe. A tendon jumps in his neck. Unconvinced, yet allowing. Trusting the pair of them, by a last frailing hair. 

“Look at me,” Angelica orders, then taps him on the cheek to get his attention. Firm but kind. When he responds she strokes the side of his head, conveying the promise with her eyes. “We did this before. You’ll  _ like  _ it.”

Yakov, between his legs, does something; something that causes a wet popping sound, Boris nearly jumps up. Angelica holds him by the head, fingers fisting in hair, and after a moment, he concedes; relaxes down again as if to evade his hair getting ripped out. Or, more likely, ripping off Angelica’s fingers. 

“See,” in thanks, Angelica grins down, “doesn’t that feel better?”

Boris licks his lips, breaks eye contact twice to try and look down, before offering a plaintive: “maybe?” 

That has to be a lie. Last time they did this, Boris had been howling at this point. Begging Yakov to not stop, to do more... Then again, Boris doesn’t  _ remember _ that part, does he..? Has forgotten, again. 

Angelica will put a stop to that now. Just as her new third-years will most definitely survive to be fourth and fifth, this will be the last time they waste days if not weeks while Boris is in his haze of confused emptiness. The last time she’ll need to pray for patience and run through the same old routines yet again, almost wishing she herself could forget -at least- how many times she’s explained and guided and taught the same exact thing. No more wipes. Angelica will not be needing such crude measures, she is sure. She can do better.

Her husband’s imbibed again though. Too much vodka, and she supposes she shouldn’t have shared her medication with him. Still, he usually knows what he's doing. Is actually calmer and more steady like this. Less likely to lash out or shut down or hurt her. Hurt perhaps even Boris. Not that Boris _ can _ be hurt, permanently. But, he does spook easily, when he is this new. When he is this fresh from a wipe. 

The lazy cigarette hanging from a corner of Yakov’s mouth has an inch of ash at the precarious end. Angelica takes it from Yakov’s lips, takes a drag herself. Just as a precaution; just to flick the ash away over the side of the bed. She would hate to burn Boris; would hate it more to be holding onto his head when he  _ does _ decide to rear up. 

Frowning down at his work, Yakov uncrosses his legs and gets up to his knees, goes down on Boris with loud smacks and  _ that _ gets a choked breath out of their charge. Though hardly any less tension. Still Angelica returns the cigarette to her mouth with a lopsided grin. “How about now? Any better?”

Attention drawn he frowns up, right hand balled and left twitching. The substitute looks better now, only the pallor off by a hair, nails looking healthy and veins no longer standing out in pulsing blue. Though not so much as too pale; no, now it’s too yellow, and she wouldn’t be surprised if they replaced it all together. All because of this stupid fixation General Vasily has developped on cryofreeze.

Well,  _ that _ she is definitely putting a stop to. If she finds wiping Boris’s memories a futile waste of resources and time, she can at least see the temptations of a mind not weighted down with the burden of knowledge and sins committed. But freezing Boris? Perhaps it is selfish, or self-centered; perhaps her views are born from her own, deep hatred of cold and all the pain it piles onto her. But Angelica strongly feels freezing anyone, even Boris, is inhumane. And if any of those blubbering scientists now following her around for endorsement of their projects and research ideas even suggest it again... Angelica cannot help the flare of anger, a gut-wrenching, protective ball of rage heen die grinds out “how is that arm?”

“Fine,” Boris answers too fast. More knee-jerk than any real answer. But, for a better one he twitches the left hand up and open, plucking the cigarette from her lips expertly. Then turning it to inhale deeply. On the exhale he relaxes, strain falling away from his brow and the rock-hard muscles resting on her legs finally mold into something more like the shape of a back. 

On a whim Angelica pulls the stick from his mouth after a second long drag and slots her mouth with his, breathing in the wetted smoke and so deeply her head spins. Holding it deep within until she expells through her nose, grinning. Smiling for real, happy for the first time she can remember, when Boris mirrors her undoubtedly stupid expression, and even Yakov lets her catch his eye and winks back looking relaxed and almost kind.

She thinks she cares for both of them quite deeply, in this moment. And yes, there’s nothing  _ normal _ about the three of them. Their three-way so scandalous and odd it would be the talk of the entire KGB if it ever became public. Nothing like a fairytale love and perhaps what she feels isn’t even a real romantic love at all. But it’s damn close. It’s the most she’s ever felt and her chest feels full with it.

Which is, of course, the moment someone knocks at her door. Unbelievable. 

“Just... keep going. I’ll be right back.” She promises, propping the cigarette back into Boris’s mouth. 

A last look over her shoulder shows her half Boris’s face through the bedroom door. It’s sexy and naughty and exciting. Right up till the moment when she sees that smug disease of a man at her doorstep.

Lukin.

And the knowing grin, the wiggling eyebrows, well...“Don’t give me that. This is what you wanted, isn’t it?” Because she is not so stupid not to know this is what they’d been driving towards all this time. 

There is some satisfaction to be gained however, when Lukin’s smile drops minutely. “Not quite what I wanted. You still are a dame, Angelica. I would have liked a tumble first...”

Still, he manages to deliver that with a promising grin. No, those dancing eyes cannot be faked, glimmering with unclean hope. Angelica, in some odd instinct to shield her lovers from his sickness, steps out and closes the door behind herself. If the act leaves her outside in the halls in her black silk bathrobe, legs bare and exposed to this lecher, well… she can take him. “What do you want, Lukin?”

“A sample.”

_ What? _

It takes her too long to realise what kind of sample he might mean. The small container, between thumb and index finger, that he shakes at her, helps.His unclean lecherous demeanor makes her actually believe it. The audacity! Angelica chokes on a mirthless, disgusted chuckle. Pauses, to find her voice. “Siberia not bleeding him dry enough yet?”

Angelica might have agreed to blood back to Siberia, but she never much liked it. And this… and this. Suggesting such a violation, suggesting she --who Boris finally, tenuously trusts-- suggesting she would be accomplice... Just keeping the sneer off her face, just trying for a professional expression; keeping her face pleasant and blank, is a struggle. How Lukin  _ disgusts _ her. 

Lukin blinks back, slowly tilting his head to the side. Considering her, looking for her angle. “Honestly, your nephew hardly shares all his plans with me. I suppose even he thought of this. But he either failed or chose this as the better method. But it’s not. For one thing we need so much blood. It’s stupid. It’s pointless. Poor Boris, such a drain must affect even one such as he. And all those  _ poor  _ girls.”

That, she cannot stand for. No, she is their patron, their protection. Angelica draws herself up. “There is no more dangerous testing on my girls. I’ve made sure of it.”

“So there’s not. Only dangerous testing on  _ other  _ girls. Some of which could have become yours. If only… if they had only been of the right pedigree, no more would have to die needlessly.” That sad sigh, all theater. That shake of the head, a blink extra for an imagined tear. Lukin, trying to shock her, trying to draw out her motherly instincts.

But she keeps her head. She’d known, hadn’t she? Where her orphans came from. Yet, she had decided only to worry about those girls in her care. She cannot save them all. Trying this much is taxing enough. So, Angelica just steels her back -ramrod straight, and stares him down.

After he sees she will not take his bait. After he accepts she will not fall down in tears like the weak-willed woman he thinks she is, Lukin wets his lip and continues. “But, we have our  _ own _ team of doctors now. Imagine, if this could work. Your Boris could be the father. You, like their mother. Think of how amazing such girls would be… All perfect, all yours.” 

And now; now it does really take all she has not to give in to hysterics. Though, those born of laughter, not tears. Because what is he thinking? And what of any boys? She can take a wild guess. “Are you truly one of those fools that still look to create an army of Uber Menschen? It’s not going to happen.”

Still those same sick old ideas. Nazis. How exhausting. She had thought Lukin a little  _ young _ to be into those ideals. Well, whatever. Outing him to the party would only cause more problems. If anyone even believed the wife of a Lieutenant. 

She’ll be warning Yakov to keep an eye on him though. Lukin may so far have failed to procure his own sample, she doesn’t trust him not to try. In fact, it’s interesting that he failed so far. Then again, Yakov has taken his goal much more seriously since the cryofreeze incident. Perhaps he is the reason Lukin, with all his allotted hours for that blasted conditioning, has had to come to her. Of course, her honest answer would be ‘fuck you’. 

Instead, she smiles. “I’ll see what I can do.” 


	20. damage controll

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It should be no surprise, considering all that, that things were about to go catastrophically wrong.

Things had been going so well, so splendidly well. A hundred percent success rate, and often with an extra boon to show for it in most missions. Boris would come home with an unexpected extra disk of state secrets. Galine would enamour a senator up to the point that he would continue to send her love-letters, even if her home address was somewhere in the wilderness of Russia. Maria even had an English spy follow her here, smitten and love-struck and easily parted from his country’s deepest secrets.

It should be no surprise, considering all that, that things were about to go catastrophically wrong. And, as usual, it’s her pair of men that will be at the central cause. As incapable of keeping their big traps shut as only men can be...

“What’s wrong, my pretty. What is it?” Yakov is squatting down at his side with difficulty. One hand on the table, one one Boris’s knee. And, not now, Angelica curses. Not yet. Because most personnel may have filed out after checks and recording Boris’s debrief, Lukin is still here.

“I didn’t kill her.” 

The room suddenly feels as cold as Siberia’s terrible courtyard. As cold as Angelica’s old little house there, on the winter mornings when her breath misted and she didn’t even want to consider crawling out of bed to face another day. Would that she could, in that moment, hide under a duffet and pretend this wasn’t happening... Angelica would like to pretend she doesn’t hide from the truth, but still.

The frozen atmosphere, carried by sheer terror, is broken when Yakov rubs his hand over Boris’s thigh nervously.

“I didn’t have to kill her. She seemed like such a swell girl. She didn’t know her research was being used for bad. And she promised to disappear.” 

Damn it. At least he waited for his little confession till most personnel had left, till the little recorder had been turned off. Till most of the spies had left. But Lukin; of course. Lukin. The man frowns, grey eyes finding her for a moment before he steps out, somewhat flustered.

“Husband,” she implores, “please, damage control.” 

In answer Yakov straightens on creaking joints, and gives Boris’s shoulder a squeeze. “Thank you for telling me,” then steps out to follow his drinking buddy. He’ll have him back here soon. Though Angelica isn’t quite sure how to talk him around. 

Letting out a slow breath Angelica leans back onto the table, looking down at Boris in contemplation. Her thigh bumps his real fist, and he scoots it down from the table before reaching out to scratch at his left shoulder. He’s scowling down to the side, something fierce, one foot tapping rhythmically. Boris is angry, she realises. Angry at her, no less. When she herself has done nothing to deserve that. 

When she, if anyone, has reason to be mad. “Why, Boris? Why, in front of _ Lukin? _ ”

“I didn’t talk in front of the  _ spies, _ ” he interrupts, gesturing with a hand to make only scittish eye contact. “I can tell my friends, you said I could...” 

Like Lukin is a friend. Like Lukin isn’t a spy for Karpov. Doesn’t he realise Lukin is his _ enemy?  _ Doesn’t he understand anything? She’d thought a little time away without having his brain fried would make Boris smarter. Apparently all it did was make him rebellious. 

Now, ah yes. There it is. Her own rage, boiling up. She reigns herself in, voice terse. “How many times must I tell you, if there’s something you cannot agree to, at least smile and at least  _ pretend  _ to follow orders?” 

Boris sneers; downright  _ sneers  _ at her, before tearing his gaze from hers. “I did the right thing. Why would I need to lie about that?”

Like a petulant child. Of course he is. Why did Angelica think Boris would be more cooperative if he’d had enough brain to follow reason? If he was a toddler before after a good two years he’s little more than a belligerent teenager. Of course he would grow rebellious before he came to understand her voice of reason. Angelica doesn’t know who she’s more upset with. Herself, or him. Or, perhaps, that snake Lukin... 

No; it’s him, it’s definitely  _ Boris  _ she should be upset with. Angelica takes his jaw in her hand, pinches his cheeks together till his mouth opens into a loose, silent ‘o’. “Why can’t you just…shut your...” 

The table groans, and her grip on his jaw proves futile; Boris raises to his feet, like a building wave. Slow but sure and overbearing. balled fists on the table, the one at her thigh punching through wood like paper, and Angelica’s left staring up, up high into death itself. Aware, and suddenly very afraid that Boris would reach out that final hand and snap her neck.

“What is this?”

A voice; from somewhere behind. Though it hardly registers to Angelica, Boris drops back to his seat, the righteous honesty replaced by feigned innocence. 

It is only at this moment that Angelica recognises that that heated, frightened voice had belonged to Lukin. And now, oh yes. Only now does Boris recognise his actions as wrong and proves that he can, when needed, play pretend just fine. Also knows perfectly well who he should fear.

Oh, what a hypocrite Boris can be. 

But if that is how he wishes to play it, very well. A plan forms in her mind, devious and unkind. Still, she feels it is Boris who let her down first. So, perhaps she can at least teach him whose neck she’d save first.

“Lady Angelica, are you hurt?” Lukin, steps forward, voice still a little broken with fear. Angelica is not fool enough to believe him worried for her safety for a moment. No; the bastard cares for no one but himself and his own comfort.

“Not yet, but it was a  _ close  _ thing,” she allows a flutter of fear to show as she swoons, then straightens, controlling herself as her ankle flares at her antics. Perhaps she should have brought her cane today. A glare at Lukin, accusing: “I don’t think your conditioning is holding up.” 

And that does it; that turns the table. Lukin turns white, splutters. His usual flamboyant, smug manner wiped away. Only after too long a moment does he manage a facsimile scoff. “That is because  _ my method _ is supposed to work in concert with the wipes. General Karpov _ did _ explain the right procedures for this.” 

Angelica, just pushes her attack. “Is that so, Lukin? I have yet to see a singular report on this dangerous development?” Angelica sneers at him, “You had no idea, did you?” 

“This is at least as much your fault as mine.” Lukin twitches. “But, I would hate to have your project pulled from you so early on. Perhaps, an agreement?” 

“We hide this unfortunate mishap, and take pains it never happens again.” 

Lukin sighs, then nods. Pleased by his next thought. “By reinstating the old procedures.”

“No, we have been asking too much of Boris.” she frowns, a moment, looking down at him. Boris is staring ahead, hands fisted and breathing just a little too fast. “He cannot do everything. It has been unfair to ask of him to both play the honey and the stinger. He should be put in a team. With at least one of my girls.”

“And we reinstate the wipes.”

“Now wait a minute. I did the right thing.” Boris slaps a hand on the table. Butting in. Again unable to keep his mouth shut. 

Angelica, voice cutting, sables him down with a hard, “the right thing?” She laughs. Loud and too long, eyes nearly wet. Breathes in, quieting herself. Looks around at the other two men for some form of support. Yakov, useless as ever. Lukin... Hell, why would she even want to side with Lukin? 

Still, right now she’s so angry she’s tempted. “You’ve endangered the lives and livelihood of every person on this base. Over a hundred families. My girls, my dear precious girls, and for what? Some computer expert sloozy? You don’t even _ like  _ computer experts.” 

“I have nothing against computer ex-” 

Lukin snorts loudly. “Just last week you pushed professor Yerganov against the wall and threatened to feed him his backup tapes.” Which is... even more interesting. Perhaps Lukin wasn’t so much unaware of Boris’s returned aggression. Perhaps he had just not been sharing the info. Or, she worried, perhaps he had just not been sharing that info with her...

Boris frowns, puffs up his cheeks and sits forward, fingering the hole in the table, now again clearly visible. “That’s not. He is a total asshole. But Pasha-” 

“ _ Will you stop trying to reason this out? _ ” Angelica throws her hands up, then instantly regrets the gesture, ankle crying at her. She should have brought her walking stick after all. “It doesn’t  _ matter _ why, or what for. If the Kremlin finds out about this  _ heads will roll. _ ”

Possibly her own. Definitely Yakov’s. He’s the de facto leader on paper at least. And if Vasily drops her, they’ll no doubt leave her penniless in the streets. A slit throat would be kinder.

Two slow blinks, before Boris sets his jaw. The petulant teenager. His eyes leave her face, where they’d searched her eyes before and he faces front, staring at nothing. “Doesn’t matter what you say. I  _ know _ I did the  _ right _ thing.” 

Oh god, what is she going to do with him? Where did she go  _ wrong?  _ Even Lukin commands more respect than she does. Well, at least she can try again.

“Very well Lukin. For today, I accept that demand.” she answers smoothly. It’s Boris’s own damn fault. And he’s getting away easy, really. They all are.

“No, wait. That’s not...” Boris, on his feet again. Towering over her with wild eyes. Erratic indeed. No understanding of action and consequence at all. Angelica is starting to expect as much of him today, and is a lot less surprised and shocked the second time around.

Yakov, however. Yakov confuses her. Worries her, as she can no longer reason out his actions. Unless... Unless she considers that perhaps, his loyalties are not purely with her and Boris. He reaches out slowly, puts a placating hand on Boris’s shoulder, and tells him: “Hush, my Bakushka. It will be okay. Just come with me.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know. the sheer amount of drama! poor Angie. poor Boris!


	21. newlyweds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yakov snorts into his drink. It’s coffee —Probably richly spiked, but coffee. So she can hardly call him out for his intoxication.

“John is a perfectly good American name,” Angelica admonishes her husband, with a smile, both towards Boris and Khristina. “Just like Elizabeth is. You will  _ both  _ do wonderfully.”

Yakov snorts into his drink. It’s coffee —Probably richly spiked, but coffee. So she can hardly call him out for his intoxication. But she doesn’t need him sowing more doubt. Not when her own voice wavers just enough for even Khristina to notice, and Angelica has to work to keep her eyes from flicking back over to her husband, in fear of him outing that lie. It’s the last thing she needs; the very last. So after a beat she gives in and turns to Yakov, face stern and flat and reiterates: “They will do  _ fine _ , husband.” 

They  _ have _ to. Too much is riding on this mission; a joint co-op, pairing Boris with one of the girls. Not quite for the first time, but their first big one since they’d had to cover for Boris’s unfortunate mishap. Or turn of conscience. 

Angelica smiles her most reassuring smile before picking up her tea from the cafeteria table; a simple wooden top with benches attached. Then winces at the poor quality. Communism is a beautiful ideal and she supports it wholeheartedly... but sometimes she misses her small creature comforts. One does have to wonder when the quality available is worse now than it was during the war. And why her husband does seem to get his hands on premium coffee while she’s cursed with third-rate herbs masquerading as Darjeeling. 

Boris’s grins widely, feigning oblivion. He is, at least, a professional. A decent front, as he sits too close to Khristina, smiling her way little more than would usually be acceptable. Then he throws an arm over Khristina’s chair and asks her if she’d like more sugar in her tea. If Boris’s left arm over her shoulder twitches a little bit, if he sweats a bit too much, that can all be forgiven as wedding day nerves. It would work; a doting fresh husband. If Khristina could stop looking so miserable and trapped. 

Khristina... Well, the tension comes off her in waves. She’s a petite thing; was hardly ballerina material to begin with. One of Angelica’s original girls, and never the most graceful. By now she’s hit thirty and any hope Angelica might have held to shape her by sheer force of will is long-dead.

Still, Khristina always did well in roleplay. Always took well to the basics of espionage. Angelica had expected her to take to this job like a fish to water. She is too pale today, awkward and quiet. And she was already too old and too homely to fit well into Boris’s arm, who will likely still look to be just hitting thirty and  _ perfect _ by the time every single of Angelica’s new students have died of old age. 

It’s exhausting really, and Angelica herself despairs. They tried to disguise his appearance with a diet of sugar, and absolutely no exercise. But in the end they had to admit defeat, recognising all they would be doing was make him wider. Any progress to fill in Boris’s musculature with some fat would have been negated by the time he’d carried his suitcases into the train. So all they ended up doing was choosing his suit half a size too big and have him grow that gastly mustache.

Well, Boris will make it work. Even if something inside Angelica screams at her to pick one of her new, perfect, beautiful, students. Already, the KGB is clamoring for their service. But, the eldest is fourteen, and even if she does look mature, after Malvina’s infiltration going sideways Angelica has been hesitant to field them. 

No, scratch that. Thank god for Boris developing an itchy trigger finger at exactly the right time. Maliva might have been confused about why her backup had executed the mark early, but one look from Boris had told her plenty. Well, Czechoslovakia was a mess anyway. And one old sicko less would only make the world a better place.

So, they’re going with Khristina. She, at least, can pass off as  _ old enough  _ to marry _ , _ if not a little  _ too  _ old to fit the bill. 

Still... is Khristina really their best choice? There are still two other grown women to choose from, and Ivanka is brave and strong, Galina practical and beautiful... but Khristina always was a mousey girl. Turning into a woman hardly changed that. She’s homely and average and while that at least makes her a good candidate for a spy mission where one is not supposed to attract too much attention, she completely fails at all the other parts. Because portraying newlyweds? Angelica thinks they make an unlikely pair; if not downright unbelievable. 

“Boris, I mean, John... talk  _ faster. _ Ask more questions.” He twitches in answer, rubs at his left shoulder nervously. A tick he is developing. Then turns towards Khristina, wetting his lips, and Angelica cuts in a little harsly. “Not  _ her _ —ask us questions. Ask your discussion partners  _ a lot of questions. _ ” It’s a diversionary tactic to keep the audience focused on themselves, instead of the pair of them. Boris knows this already. Was actually already trying, but with her here... “And Khristina?

“Don’t speak  _ at all. _ Please only smile and nod.” 

Angelica is confused about why Khristina’s voice keeps breaking. Why her English is so halting today... why she looks so  _ scared. _ Perhaps a mission across borders, on an interstate train no less, might be a daunting christening. Still, Boris will be right with her, and even if Khristina doesn’t look like much, she has always loved pretending, playing a role. Infiltration would be Khristina’s specialty, and Angelica thought her to at least have nerves strong enough to rival her own. Yet, ever since the moment Khristina has been briefed on the fact that she’d have to play Boris’s wife. She’d turned white as a sheet, pathetic thing. And yet here, when it counts, she looks completely out of her depth. 

Oh, to be twenty years younger. Angelica would have  _ loved  _ this mission. Would have aced it. And think, the Orient Express. It would have been a stage for her to shine on. Angelica would have done so much better… but those days are behind her. And, Angelica reminds herself, Khristina is one of the girls that will continue her heritage. Angelica needs to support her; to have faith. “Don’t worry. Boris will keep you safe.”

And this time, Boris does break character, if only to give her a meaningful look. Which is fair, because Angelica had only  _ just _ taken him to the side to warn him to put himself before Khristina, if it came to that. Still, she knows he will try. It’s only that, compared to the mission, compared to Boris’s worth… Angelica needs him to understand that  _ all _ their lives are riding on  _ him. _ Though that lesson appears to be a hard one to take root. God, she can only hope Boris will take her advice and drop the pathetic girl if this all goes south. 

No; that is unfair. Angelica should have better prepared the woman. If anything it’s Angelica’s fault if she fails. She should have readied her. Not just familiarized her with Boris, with his proximity. But with sex and love and touch as well. Angelica just hadn’t realised these things do not happen on their own. She’d never even considered the idea of a thirty year old virgin.

The new girls will do so much better. They dance with Boris, and to his music when he plays the piano, watch when she shows a new move from his arms. Joke with him, when they see an opportunity. 

“Let’s see a newlywed’s kiss then.” Angelica decides; not out of some self-flagellation, but for  _ useful _ reasons. Reasons like, the pair not getting caught the first day and outed as spies because Kristina doesn’t know how to kiss and is afraid of Boris besides. 

“Oh, please.  _ Spare _ me.” Yakov cuts in, then gestures towards Boris sitting forward. “You don’t have to.”

Angelica sits up straighter, fingers hard around her tea. “Yes they  _ do! _ ” Kristina passed her thirtieth birthday and yet in some ways she remains just a little girl. “It would be a shame if our spies get caught because our girl is the only virgin on the entire Oriental Express. This is the  _ sixties, _ Yakov.” 

Perhaps Angelica failed her in this, should have at least offered some advice. But, Angelica has been busy. And she had always believed one soldier or another would find their way into the skirts of all of her girls. But Khristina is  _ awfully _ homely. And about as outgoing as a dead tortoise. 

“Yes, please. Go ahead and  _ consummate _ .” 

The salacious wish from behind makes Angelica jump. It would be _ Lukin _ , of course, train tickets in hand. How she hates it when that creep sneaks up on her. Though, she really should have noticed Boris’s annoyed frown and the fact that he’s already halfway out of the bench, helping Khristina up with him. 

Lukin stands waiting a little too long, the fake happy couple staring back until Boris seems to make a decision and reaches for his travel papers, still in Lukin’s hand. The man actually steps back. “Oh, give us a demonstration? The kiss? Just to make sure you’re both _ ready _ ? Please, be as realistic as possible.”

“Please try and remain a professional, Lukin.” Angelica chides. What if Khristina got knocked up for real? Oh, of course, Lukin would  _ love _ that.

“Oh, like you? I mean of course. Wouldn’t want to spill any supergenes off base. They would be  _ so _ much better contained here...” he frowns down on her, one eyebrow raising. His code for ‘ _ you still owe me’ _ “Who cares about promises… Well, come on kids, no use wasting time on these hoarders.” 

“Lukin is getting demanding.” Angelica hisses at her husband as soon as the three move off. “Do you think he’s planning to snitch on us?”

“Too late for that now, and don’t worry. I have him well in hand.” Like Yakov ever has anyone in hand. But his expression brooks no dissent as he finishes his coffee, then looks around furtively and starts refilling his cup from his field flask. That one  _ definitely _ has no coffee in it. "And I have it figured out. They cannot have another bomb in Boris’s skull, or any electronic detonator in him,” Yakov nods, more to himself than to his wife. “They flash-froze him. Any battery for a remote detonator would be ruined."

Angelica sighs into her tea. There he goes again. "Don't forget  _ we _ electrocuted him as well, not too long ago." And Yakov was fine with that. He’s an odd one, Angelica thinks. Though it was necessary she had expected him, of all people, to take issue with it.

“True, and my nephew hasn’t had his grubby fingers on him since. Nothing mechanical could have survived. All they have is the hypnosis word."

The  _ what? _ Angelica tries to hide her surprise behind a hand, but Yakov must catch it anyway, because he inclines his head gravely. "It's.. not good. But,.. I have it. We can get away."

Angelica sighs, then pops an extra prescription pill for her ankle before downing it with terrible, lukewarm, tea. She is developing a headache, and she will need all her wits about if she means to dissuade her husband from  _ another _ one of his foolish escape attempts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi guys! missed me? yeah, this one took a while. but it's mostly because the one from stealing was kicking my ass! so, there's that. I'm posting this one first because that other one still needs another last look. oh boy!
> 
> oh, here's my research notes. I usually skip them but you know ;)  
> Angelica’s first girls:  
> Ylayja- with KGB  
> Tovia- married with children, on Siberian base  
> (unnamed, married somewhere in Siberia)  
> Invanka: sharpshooter/fighter; lover of:  
> Galina: pretties left. Girly but pragmatic  
> Khristina: homely and small.  
>  (1967 orient express runs till ‘77) Boris X Khristina posing as married. Yakov thinks it’s disgusting. Angelica tries to force down her jealousy. She should be mostly protective of Kristina. Kristina has all the reason to fear Boris. And Yet Angelica is jealous of her. Kristina is also obviously a virgin at thirty. Angelica thinks that is ridiculous. And also, she failed her as a teacher. Lukin thinks it’s a great opportunity.


	22. Substitute

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She doesn’t want to be here. Angelica shouldn't be here.  
> (warnings: gore, blood, medical procedures. DRAMA!)  
> special thanks 2 beta, personaljunkdrawer.

She doesn’t want to be here. Angelica  _ shouldn't  _ be here. The medical wing is a place for doctors, nurses and patients, and the one time she was of the last variety was catastrophic enough to last her a lifetime. Besides, the smell of blood and antiseptics never agreed with her. Nor do the clinical assessing eyes, professionals taking stock of suffering patients. It Upsets her, like it upset her when the doctors told her ‘sorry. Setting an ankle was not a priority. There was a bloody war on,  _ didn’t she know?’  _

And all this is before she reaches the operating hall, her gait too slow for her preference even with the aid of her trusty oak walking stick. When she finally steps through the door of the grand theatre, it’s not a moment too soon. A boy of five had been staring after her, one of the soldier’s sons. Glass hollow eyes, devoid of much more than a passing interest. Not her problem — Angelica doesn’t even let the daily checkup her girls go through be her problem. But she dislikes these places, associates them with death and sickness. And for good reason.

Pushing through the rubber sealed door she finds herself in an operation theatre, two tables set in tandem, both beds filled. Walking past Khristina is already unpleasant. Though Angelica knows, intellectually, Khristina was never in danger of losing her life. A few fingers, perhaps, from her right hand; the entire arm elevated in splints from the side of her bed. A face covered in bloody bandages, only a breathing tube coming out from the middle. The damage to her face will be the worst of it; the report had already explained. Not just abrasions, but a badly broken nose. Missing teeth. An eye that has yet to be proclaimed salvageable. 

A near-fatal jump out of a moving train will do that to a girl. Though Angelica fails to understand why Boris hadn’t protected her. Hadn’t jumped with her; kept her safe, and pulled her to his chest to bear the brunt of the impact. 

Well, the reports say he  _ had, _ but it had obviously been late. Angelica knows, from personal experience, that if Boris means to catch you, he  _ will. _ He never botches a jump, and definitely  _ never _ misses a catch. It’s the only reason she can still dance at all. If Boris had failed to catch her perfectly, it’s either because he’d hadn’t known Khristina was about to jump at all, or he’d been otherwise occupied. Angelica’s inclined to go with option two, as Boris always knows; he may be crude and sometimes prone to use strength over grace. But if there’s one thing that comes naturally to him, it is awareness of his partner.

At least he’d jumped after her. At least he’d mostly caught her, saved her from a fall no mere mortal should be able to survive. At least they cleared all the objectives for the mission. At least they were back here, back home, and more or less in one piece. 

Boris will, of course, heal. Make a complete recovery. As he always does. Khristina, however...

The doctors and nurses will try their best, of course. But Angelica knows that face will scar, rendering her too conspicuous for spy-work. And she may lose her trigger finger yet. It’ll be early retirement for Khristina. In fact, Angelica is a little surprised the doctors bother at all, though she appreciates the sentiment. Perhaps the Party will be gracious. Perhaps retirement will, in fact, entail an afterlife somewhere quiet for the rest of her days. Still, it would make more sense to Angelica if the party never  _ heard _ of Khristina, and never will. Nor that they would care for her fate if they did.

Regardless, Angelica was never one to cry over spoiled milk. Or spilled, whatever. She finds she is already mentally distancing herself. Find herself cutting her losses. Perhaps it is cruel and heartless, but Angelica has so much more riding on her than one unfortunate woman. Galina and Ivanka, the other two of her original girls. Two dozen young ones in training, like children to her already. Yakov, poor useless bastard he is. A score of soldiers, nearly a hundred lab workers, scientists and assorted personnel ranging from janitors to IT. Another dozen engineers, experts and doctors, and all the attached families that have come to live with them. And.

And Boris.

The senior doctors are all positioned around the further table, spotlights overhead solarizing their white coats and caps into bright splotches that have Angelica squinting her eyes as she answers to their beckoning gestures. In this double operation theatre, there are no partitioning walls or curtains between tables. No sectioning between their work-in-progress and patient recovering. Khristina, they must be mostly done with. Only a single nurse hovers still, making notes. Left to her fate as Angelina gravitates towards that far table.

Like all personnel does: nurses and doctors — even machinery and lights drawn to focus on him. Too many bodies mill around, covering her view. Like buzzing wasps around leaking fruit, overripe and sweet. One of the doctors, features hidden behind a surgical mask but bearing the marks of the head surgeon, waves her closer. The white walls of lab-coats finally part, opening to her so she can finally see him. 

Boris, as she never had wanted to see him again. The scent of blood permeates her mask and makes her eyes water. The beeb of machines coupled with the murmur of men and women going about their work is nearly enough to make her steel stomach revolt. Then, it gets worse, when she finally sees Boris’s face, features twisted in unwanted awareness.

He is  _ awake _ , and that nasty head-surgeon has his scalpel knuckle-deep into Boris’s shoulder, flesh kept apart with bloody clamps. They have him tied down with thick bands, only Boris’s head free enough to move. It drops left then right in small, sluggish increments. Only his brow and eyes are bare, crunched up in a closed-eyed frown. The lower half of his face is obscured by an opaque breathing mask, but she can see his lips move through the plastic. It takes her a moment to identify the words, but he is counting backwards: ‘ _ Three. Two.. Three Two, One?’  _

“Can’t you people keep him under, at least?” she cuts, sick to her stomach.

At her voice Boris stirs, becomes more focused and aware. It is not a pretty sight. Glazy eyes open, lips move behind his mask, voice muffled. “Ssssseeh?” he blinks, too slow, then mercifully his eyes close again. Goes back to counting, interspersing a gasping ‘five!’. 

The doctor frowns from behind his own mask and glasses, unpretumed but by her admonishment. “Our anethesist is the best and most knowledgeable in the field. But your man is a moving goalpost. Regardless, that is not why I called you here. We have a real problem.” 

Meaningfully, he gestures with his free hand, to the hole he’s got his other hand stuck into; a bloody mess of a shoulder. When Angelica bends over to look, it’s the smell that gets her. She retches in revulsion and backs up. 

Apparently that is exactly what the doctor expected of her. He simply nods and covers the offending creavase between Boris and his ruined, left donor arm. A piece of surgical paper over the wound, in an out-of-sight, out-of-mind gesture. “He took two bullets with the thing, but it was rotting before so I would have had to replace it anyway. The problem, of course, is where it connects to the  _ rest  _ of his body.” 

Angelica drops her walking stick in favour of getting out her handkerchief, before she really might lose her lunch. Still, when she has herself under control and sure she will not throw up, she notices Boris has gotten louder, still stuck on the newly discovered five. He actually repeats it, then appears to notice something odd, because he blinks open his eyes, and starts back with the countdown still skipping the obvious four. But from the way he keeps blinking up at the ceiling, Angelica knows he is in pain.

She rounds on the man she guesses can only be the anesthetist, hovering over the intravenous lines but  _ still not actually doing anything _ . “Is it that hard? Just turn up the dose, you useless man.”

That actually gets her a sneer from behind his mask. “I happen to know what I’m doing. He is fine for now, and I will save the good stuff for when they actually start cutting.” 

Which sounds stupid to her. They may have their shortages sometimes, may lack the finer things. But Boris is the most valuable creature on this entire base. As far as she is concerned he can burn through their entire medicine allotment today, and she will request more for tomorrow. If that’s what it takes. 

But the head surgeon nods, like the anesthetist made perfect sense, finally pulling out his hand. “The humerus has continued to rot. Right up to the ball of the upper arm. Likely in rejection to the donor tissue. Again.”

“Three. Two. Five. Sssteeef?”

“It’s Vasily’s fault.” Angelica nearly yells, over that monotone drone. Over the doctor as well. If Boris doesn’t start crying she just might. “The freezing.”

Damn it, Vasily must have known. That is probably why he was so eager to give Boris to her. To cut his losses and focus on his other projects. Yet the doctor shakes his head, “No way to tell for sure now, but given what I’ve been told about his previous donor limbs, that seems unlikely.” 

Boris finally seems to notice her. “Angel...?” how he manages to be heard, if likely only by her, she doesn’t know. Right now, she tries to ignore him. Turns to the head-surgeon once again, straightens on both feet, the pain in her ankle grounding as well as a deserved penance for her own stupidity. No, she might have been played, but when the cold has settled into her she will pull through. She will take her dues. From Vasily, most of all. “What do you mean?”

“I mean donor rejection is a thing with him, and it’s happened before.” 

“Don’t let them, Angel. Steve?” 

Damn, but it’s hard to stay focused. He’s practically  _ begging _ her, and obviously the drugs only serve to confuse him further. Still, she tries to focus on the doctor’s words, his monotone drone even more obvious now Boris’s voice has gained some inflection. 

“I’d recommend something synthetic this time. The titanium alloy prototype from my colleagues at engineering looks promising, and perhaps with a gold coating at connection points we can finally remedy these reactions.”

“Angel? Don’t let them..?”

She cannot help it; she turns to Boris, anger flaring, though she manages to fold it into reason. “It’s rotting Boris. It has to go,” she swallows, “Don’t worry. I will get you a good replacement.”

“Don’t.”

Her spear of reason breaks, shatters into a thousand pieces, sharp as glass. “Well, you should have thought of that before starting a gunfight. You should have thought of that before jumping off a train. You should have thought of that before failing a simple catch.” she sighs, drained, but at least calmer, after her outburst. “Why did you  _ fail? _ ”

“Bad, drag?” he gasps, eyes fluttering. “Khriss. Didn’t listen.” Perhaps the anethesist finally got with the program. Terrible timing, as ever. Angelica is still relieved for it. Even when Boris mumbles, half-heard: “noone ever listenzz.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for anyone wondering we're somewhere at the end of the 60s now.  
> I hope you can all take the drama, especiall considering we all are getting ours already. stay safe!!


	23. discord

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Grâce,” she says. but the room is spinning.

The cane taps out the beat for him on the wooden floor. For him, and for a dozen girls center on the ballet floor, spinning slowly from one pose to the next, directed by Angelica’s strict instructions. Carried — carried, he’d hope, by the piano’s song.

If it wasn’t for the stool under him, Boris would swear he was spinning with the ballerinas somewhere behind.

“Plié, Andante." 

High melody, right. Right fingers effortlessly dancing. An extra trême, a double chord, hitting in tempo with the dancer’s feet. A little flair and a lot of practice. Skill, it’s almost worth it. Almost feels good, at that moment. Until the piece demands the use of a second hand. C-Cords, on the left. Ideally; pinky-ring-index-thumb. 

He just tries to hit that C. A claw thrown that lands in the right vicinity, at least. A clumsy metal construct covered in a too-thin synthetic glove. It strikes too hard, cuts through the poor protective covering and skids off brittle keys, chipping ivory. The fake left tilts off the plateau and falls down to sway back to his side. Down with a grind from his shoulder socket that he feels in his teeth. 

“Grâce.”

Right. — Right hand, also. Right, focus! He catches the melody with his right-side, good hand. Dances with the right fingers. An octave too high, but the correct notes hit. Continue on.

Left. Low chords, again; too soon. He puts in real effort, this time, demanding a c-g double note from the useless claw. Involves two prosthetic fingers, unresponsive metal covered in cracking synthetic skin. A half-hearted attempt at realism, just like his shot at the demanded perfection has turned ambiguous only after reaching half-way. Frustration mounts, but is quickly covered by that blanket of exhaustion. The feedback, from this metal construct of a limb, is next to nothing. But the pain; god the exhausting, ever-lasting tug! A pulsing on his entire left side, expanding like taffy into burning pain-pain.

“Grâce!”

Boris snarls at the keys, white and black dancing in front of his eyes. It's pathetic; there's nothing biological  _ left _ there to hurt. And.. that’s why..? He forgets… but that’s why it’s important  _ she _ doesn’t see. Angelica. But, she doesn't have to know. Won’t know; won’t notice. Angelica is focussed on her girls, just hit the G, left. Hit. Hit... Catch, with the right... Too much to catch. Just fumble through. Blink the sweat and the hair from your eyes and continue right on.

“ty też, Boris.  _ Grâce,”  _ softly, right in his ear.

That voice, her voice, makes him jump then  _ freeze,  _ because that hurt-hurts. Makes the dark wood in front of him dance and blur. How can it hurt so fucking much? It’s not even there, not even real. He... Boris? Boris presses his eyes shut, almost taken along by the constant spinning, constant speeding that will not stop. Force the eyes open. Angelica’s talking. Shakes him. Pulls at his good shoulder, trying to get him to turn around. “...kill another poor piano?” 

“What?” oh, did he butcher a piano before, hitting too hard? Did he get violent? He might have. He’s not sure. Everything’s been murky and foggy. Hard to remember much of anything. Except the spinning-speeding, and except the Angel. Angelica? The angel that he missed to catch. 

With her golden halo of hair... No, nearly pure silver now. But when he remembers her from before, it’s pure gold. That makes sense... That means he  _ does _ remember her, from before. He’s less sure about Yakov and Lukin, and all these little girls. Though it starts, for him, with Yakov and Lukin. His memories. Any memories. Start with them, explaining. It all starts last month, or week, and then sprawls backward into a tangled web of memories that can’t all be real. But it’s impossible to know fake from real without the explanations. So, it all starts there.

Then again, Boris can’t keep much straight even with all those patient, slow explanations. Doesn’t know, or understand much. Not time, not memory. Not anything.

Except he’s  _ angry, _ and hurting. And that’s  _ why. _ Why he keeps forgetting. Lukin explained that. Yakov and Angelica explained that. So there, if he could just stop getting so  _ angry _ , he would probably at least have some constant. Remember  _ normal,  _ whatever that might be, for him. At least then he might be able to tell what’s wrong. It’s probably a good thing he’s this tired. If he had any more energy Boris knows he would use it to tear the fucking piano apart. Pull it apart, and the dance floor, and all the machines and all restraints and all the fucking beds the little girls sleep on at night.

And if they’re lucky, if they at least listen to him, this one time — because they never listen! — Yes, if the little ballerinas and Angelica and Yakov and Lukin remember to listen to him this one time, maybe they’ll run, before he tears them apart, before he digs a hole big enough to swallow this entire fucking base. And, he wouldn’t even feel guilty. Not for the soldiers or the scientists or even for Yakov and Lukin and Angelica. Not even for the dancing girls that should be so young and kind but he knows.. He knows how they vie for first place and that’s so wrong... What the fuck is wrong with him? 

No. he knows what’s wrong. Doesn’t need to remember, because he’s constantly reminded. Something that’s been there, forever. But now, now it’s impossible to ignore. Hurts so bad. God, but he needs it to stop. How does he get off this ride? That’s the one thing he’d like to remember. How did he get on? If he figures out how he got on, he can surely get the hell off.

Angelica’s still talking, and all he can do is snarl. To the devil with  _ embarrassing himself. _ Lukin and Yakov too can shove it, because “it hurts!” 

She actually steps back, eye widening and cane suddenly up between them like a shield. Like a little toothpick of a shield… No. “I don’t want this. It hurts.” 

And that. That too is familiar. Rolls off his tongue right and familiar. Bu... Boris? Boris grabs his arm, right at the biceps. Tries to squeeze out the hurt, radiating from his left limb. Like a monster crawling up from inside there, out and over him to consume him. Drowning him, pain like ice-water, fire-water. It too is familiar.

His hand grabbing unbending metal is not. An almost square, angular biceps. No, the hard angled metal is familiar, but it’s in the wrong  _ place. _ There’s too much of it, or more than before? He cannot remember, but he is sure there used to be less. Can it really be consuming him, can his robot-zombie arm be eating him alive? Taking over piece by piece until he’s an undead robot?

Panic. Angelica talks. Talks. Would he rather go without an arm?  _ Yes?  _ What good would a one-armed soldier be?  _ I don’t know? _

No, but that “you are not listening to me,” he bites. And that, yes; that too he remembers. This he knows. No-one ever listens. “It hurts.”

Angelica stops, air broken off half-way through words. He doesn't know what words. At this point. Doesn’t care. Because it hurts it hurts. It hurts, and the only good thing about that is that it’s been hurting so long he’s exhausted and too tired to do the other thing that’s trying to crawl up his spine, that other creature.

Panic.

She cocks her head, then reaches into her breast pocket again. To her pill box, shakes one out. Then hesitates, her eyes on him. Shakes out a second one, then hands the double dose to him. 

Which, he recognises it for the gesture it is. An attempt to listen, a solution of sorts. Her fucking pills. She’s doling them out like peppermints. Didn’t she give Yakov one too, when he complained about a headache this morning? Yes. yes, he thinks so.

Dry-swallow makes him think peppermints would have at least gone down easier. Still, the gesture he appreciates, so he swallows them down.

Angelica stares, long blinking moments, before turning around with a snap of her fingers. “Luka, the tape player, please. Boris, let’s dance.” 

One of the girls jumps from out of the flock of girls returning to the bar, runs over quickly the cassette player. And Boris... Boris follows Angelica out to the open space. This too is familiar. And perhaps the pills do work, because the spinning in his head, the thumping from his missing limb, they all fall back to a low hum in the background when he focuses on her.

He’s not sure he wants to dance. He’s not sure what Angelica means by it, why she would want to. Why she would want him to. Does she mean to show him how well she can ignore pain? How well she can, even on a ruined leg? It’s not that he’s not impressed. It’s not that he  _ doesn’t _ want to prove he measures up.

But, he’s still tired. Doesn’t want to keep going. Keep doing this. Not if it gets him nowhere. He thinks he promised, kind of, that he’d at least try and keep up? She is brave and fierce and amazing. His Angel, the original, he thinks. How she  _ dances,  _ even when her body makes it impossible, fights back every step of the way _. _ How she just gets back up, despite everything thrown against her, and how she raises herself high.

Yet, when she raises to en pointe, Boris moves to her waist. He would not drop her. Would never drop her. It’s something deep of him that twists at the idea, not to be there. Not to be there to catch her.

Has he dropped her?

One leg up, raised high. Then the other. The whole one. Putting her whole weight on the ankle that does not work. Yet, she smiles, arm loose, graciously and long neck stretched out.

Effortless.

Jumps, without a moment’s worry. A small, graceful slowed hop. Yet brazen, for she cannot push off with the bad one. Does not have a care for how that means she will land on the bad one. Boris knows what is coming,stretches for it. Because she is a fool. He has a mind to tell her.  _ Don’t.  _ Yet she does; lands and patterns softly on the tips of her toes, spinning slowly. Then jumps again, speeding up.

She jumps, again, further this time, pushing off with her good leg, landing on the terrible one. A twitch from her lips, but Boris is there, and he takes her weight and catches her, only a few percent of the impact on that bad foot. A smile, widening.

Why does she do this to herself? It has to hurt.

Spinning faster, faster.

Like looking out a window, watching the world speed by. Treacherously, is he standing still at all? Too fast so fast, like the world passing him by. No, it’s just Angelica. Angel, eyes only slightly showing the strain, a few grey-gold hairs loose from her bun flowing after her like a living halo.

She forces the last door. There’s nothing beyond the gangway bellows. A hip-high chain Khristina steps over easily. Her hand reaches for him. “We have to jump. There’s too many of them.”

The scenery behind her whips past, trees overhead teleporting back to a distance at which they seem to only move backwards slowly.

Angelica jumps, again, spins faster and faster. Going up high and higher. Adding up the stakes, stacking the dangers. He admires it; it steals his breath. It scares him to death. The drop, the fall. He cannot always reach. Fears the drop, as well.

And then one side of the grassland drops away, into a deep crevice, and Boris jumps back from that offered hand. “We’re going too fast. It’ll be safer to just kill them.” 

There can’t be more than five left. Bad odds, but the close quarters could be used as an advantage. “How many bullets do you have left.”

Khristina gives him an incredulous look. “None. Neither do  _ you _ .”

And, okay, so that’s bad. That’s bad.

Hand outstretched.

“We have to jump.” 

Hand outstretched.

He’ll never make it. He knows he’ll never make it. Can’t even start to reach.

There’s a white star. And scared eyes, staring at him. Face hidden, but the eyes he knows. 

The eyes are so scared. He knows he’ll never reach. 

Why even try? 

He’ll tear in two and that’s fine. He should never have gotten up in the first place.

“I can fight them.” He’ll feel better; safer fighting them. He’d prefer a bullet to the head over... over  _ falling. _

Another leap, breath-taking and supernatural. Gasps from the girls. From Boris. Will she keep doing this, till the end? Will she keep dancing until it kills her? Boris thinks so, but he thinks he doesn't want her to. 

Then, he gasps again. He’s late. Distracted. Dives forward. Just like on the train, with Khristina. And before. With Angel? But, he’ll never make it. It’s too far and they’ll both fall. He doesn’t want to fall.

Doesn’t want to fall, but he doesn’t want to stay on this train either. How does he get off?

They are on the floor, Angelica in his arms. She is mostly on top. Should be fine. He didn’t  _ think _ he dropped her. Not besides being just a little late. But. “It’s got to stop. Angel? Make it stop.

"I don’t want to fall.” 

She is shaking, just a little, feels like she’s crying. When he turns to look at her, there are no tears though. Of course not. She is still so strong. “Okay Boris. Okay. I’ll stop.” 

Why aren’t there any stops on this ride?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to personaljunkdrawer for beta. and we agree, 3 levels is hard! hope it was still easy enough to follow.


	24. coveted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I know what I promised.” His wife suppresses a sigh and pushes a thump deep into the orbit of her left eye as the phone’s reciever-earpiece drops from her mouth to rest on a shoulder. “I also remember what you promised me.”

“I know what I promised.” His wife suppresses a sigh and pushes a thump deep into the orbit of her left eye as the phone’s reciever-earpiece drops from her mouth to rest on a shoulder. “I also remember what you promised me.” Angelica then shifts gears in a way Yakov recognises as desperation, accompanied by a turn and a half-step before she straightens her spine. Her tone turns stone-cold accusatory: “you  _ knew _ he was damaged. Knew that donor arm was poisoning him, yet never bothered to tell me. If you’d  _ told _ me, I could have...”

Yakov can just hear his nephew’s voice raising, overcutting her. Loud and unaccepting, bearing down all the authority his rank as General lends him. Angry, unbudging. Yakov crosses his arms in worry, too agitated to even sit down. Too worried to even step away from Angelica’s office door, something inside him afraid someone will eavesdrop, will realise how precarious their hold of the situation is. 

But General —Cousin— Vasily isn’t  _ wrong. _ Yakov doesn’t really see how Angelica could turn this around. Make this debacle anything less than their fault. And he feels the weight of that; feels it more aptly, obviously, than his wife. Boris has been in their care for years now. In their care for years, and off duty for over nine months.

Angelica grunts, paces the two steps the cord to the phone allows her to, then turns, apparently aware of the futility of her argument. Then finally answers a question Yakov can not quite pick out. “No, no, no he’s not ready. Not stable at all.” 

Again, the voice at the far end raises, but this time Angelica cuts over Vasily: “Well, you are sending me  _ poor material  _ to work with. That so-called engineer of yours let battery acids leak down his insides...” 

That’s a lesson learned, Yakov supposes. Don’t let the doctors and engineers close to Boris without supervision, not even if they are on their payroll. They mess up. They promise things they cannot make true, and panic when failure becomes immanent. A close eye is needed. Yakov doesn’t really mind being that close eye, though he does not enjoy watching them cut into Boris. 

It’s still better to find out they messed up later. And Angelica may present herself as an iron lady, she does not have the stomach for watching medical procedures. So that job falls to Yakov. That’s fine; it’s the least he can do. He’ll do better, stay sober. He can do it.

“No. No, I-” Yakov’s lost track of the conversation again, but by now Angelica looks even more upset. If Yakov didn’t know better he’d think she was close to tears. “No those do not  _ work, _ general. I don’t know why, but he’s still hurting. I had to have him frozen, Karpov.  _ Frozen. In your terrible little tube I... _ ” 

Again, she collects herself, swallows taking the phone’s receiver away from her mouth momentarily. Then snidely hisses “Well, perhaps the KGB should try and do  _ without _ our help for a few…” 

Again, Angelica’s voice is overruled. General Karpov near shouting at the other side. He means to keep Angelica to her promise. Of course he does. She  _ promised _ she would handle all the missions thrown their way; without that promise, Boris would never have been surrendered to their care in the first place.

However, there is, Yakov thinks, an easy solution. “Just give him your eldest,” he stage-whispers to her.

“I-" Angelica pauses, frowning at him in confusion "What?". Then her expression bleeds into shock. She manages, only after another few seconds to say: “Can you hold for a second?” then mutes the mouthpiece with her palm. “My... you mean  _ my _ senior girls? You want me to  _ give _ them to the KGB?” 

Yakov shrugs; it seems like elementary to him. “They are what, seventeen?” Yakov knows that’s pushing it. Still. “This is what they have been training for, and you cannot keep them forever.” 

Angelica’s frowns deepens, the lines in her face accented in a way that makes her look terribly old. “They are not ready.” 

Which, okay. He understands her fears; can understand especially after the mess that was that last mission, with Khristina. That had been a grown woman, and these are  _ girls. _ No, he supposes they are just  _ babies  _ to Angelica.  _ Her _ babies _. _ Still, “They have trained for this for a decade; have been conditioned to it. They are  _ far _ stronger than... than the  _ normal  _ ones _.” _ Yakov means her first six girls, of course. The ones the doctors did not alter to be better than anything nature produced. Stronger than he thinks any woman has any business to be. 

Imagine the irony of it coming to where he actually advocates that as a good thing. Yakov steps forward, puts a hand to Angelica's shoulder. He can be a supportive husband occasionally. “They are strong. They were meant to be spies. And they will never be ready;  _ no one _ can really ever be ready.” 

Finally, finally Angelica nods. But before Yakov can take the receiver to finish the negotiations, she bites “ _ Borrow _ . Vasily and the KGB both can  _ borrow _ my girls, in exchange for him lending us his best experts in the field. I'll lend my dozen top girls until we get our American Agent back to field conditions.”

Which is an oddly official way for her to refer to Boris. And it confuses Yakov. Until, after they hang up, she turns to Yakov with a grave expression. “Last year has been a mess. I thought this over and I only see one way ahead. We’re going to have to start over.” 

Something cold drops into the depths of Yakov, making him feel sick. “You want to  _ wipe _ him? All the way? You want him to forget  _ us? _ ” Fear spoiling the exhaustion of victory only just secured from the jaws of Cousin Vas’s and Angelica’s double-jawed disputes. This, this is his greatest fear.

“I want him to forget this past year.” She sighs, finally sitting down behind her desk. Gestures for him to sit down as well. 

Yakov does, the adrenaline finally fading from his system, making him feel tired and so, so old. But, Angelica too must understand what that would mean. “He will not just forget _ this year _ . If you mean to do a full wipe, he will forget  _ all  _ of it. He will forget  _ us.” _

“Stop being dramatic. He will still be the same,” Angelica promises. Though, he will not be. Not quite. 

Boris is not quite the same as Nikita, who was not quite the same as Bakushka, who was probably not quite the same as Bucky. Perhaps that is normal. Perhaps he, Yakov, is not the same as he was ten years ago, and that not the same man he was twenty, which none are the young, hopeful man he remembers from his youth. Too many compromises, too many things done for the greater good, things he would rather forget about.

In this, he understands Angelica’s wish to wipe away this last year, which must have been nothing but pain for Boris. To wipe away as well the time he spent with an almost real, normal arm. Boris has not been receptive to the metal replacement. 

Though Yakov can understand why he would not be. It’s ugly. Next iteration, Yakov will make sure it’s better-looking. He’ll make a demand of it. Still, there’s one giant problem. “He’ll forget about us too, Angelica. Forget about all these years together.” 

Angelica taps a hand to the table, only a fraction of the worry she should feel over this showing on her face. “You can give him our joint history, and improve upon it where needed. A clean slate, a start over.”

Again, Yakov feels an anger bubbling up inside of him. None of this is his fault, yet he’s going to lose the most here. “I’m not sure I can.” he amends, “I’m not sure we can. Look at us, Angelica, we are  _ old. _ ”

He can tell Boris they’ve been together for over two decades. Explain, even show photographic evidence. But even with the partial wipes they have used these last years, he knows Boris might  _ believe _ them. And yet it always takes days for  _ believe _ , to become  _ knowledge _ . Days lost where Boris will not even allow Yakov to touch him. That's even with just partial wipes. 

And it takes longer, every time. Yakov is sure it’s at least partially because of how old Yakov looks now. How old he is; while Boris is still, as ever, just Boris. Ever the same. Ever young.

His wife looks away, shying from his near-pleading gaze. “Perhaps that would be best, husband. Perhaps... Perhaps we should accept that we are too old to dance. Too old to keep up. I…”

The anger flares up, fueled by the fear of losing Boris. Yakov jumps to his feet, hitting both palms to the table. Fear, pointed and aimed at her. Of losing  _ him, _ completely. Not just this iteration, but all of him. And it’s all Angelica’s fault, for sending Boris on that train with a useless whore. Not like Boris had needed her. Boris would have done the job alone, but that bitch Khristina must have confused him somehow. 

A swipe, throwing papers, the heavy black phone, and an empty teacup to the floor. Angelica cowers back in her chair, yet does not stand. The table provides the last barrier between them. Yakov would throw that aside and grab her, shake her... If he still had the strength. Yet, even doing  _ this _ much has winded him.

Defeated by old age and weakness. Yakov huffs two breaths and sits back down heavily. It's not fair.

It’s just not  _ fair. _

Boris is good and hard-working and  _ perfect. _ Is still perfect, after all this time. Which is of course also his downfall. If only Boris would grow old, Yakov could have taken him with him when he retired.

The Kremlin would have to allow him to, at some point. If Boris would become too old to continue. If he no longer looked the part. Like they had allowed Khristina to retire. If only he'd look his age, Yakov would be able to steal him away. Keep him, worship him. But no, even if he did — surely, this problem with the arm is worse than a few scars. No; even if he did, there would still only be one Super Soldier. Boris would still be too valuable to be let go.

If only there were as many of Boris as there were little ballerina whores. Then Yakov could take him away to his family farm, live a quiet life. While away at the last of their days in peace. Or, at least, while away the last of Yakov’s days. He’d keep Bors safe and coveted till he was dead and buried.

But Boris, of course, is unique. And as long as he  _ is _ unique, there will be no end to this. 

Yakov sighs, nods and climbs back to his feet. There is no end to this; not like this. There never will be.

Yes, for once, Yakov is sorry all the plans and tries to duplicate Boris have failed so spectacularly. That even these ballerina’s, nurtured with Boris’s blood, are such poor duplicates. Such faded copies. Right now, he’d have liked nothing better than for Boris to become redundant. 

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> special thanks 2 personaljunkdrawer for beta. just a few more!!


	25. Lukin

Everybody wants something.

It’s tiring work. But it’s _good_ work. It’s all about working the angles; all about playing the waiting game. Taking the time to let your target exhaust itself. Let them come to the right conclusions on their own. The one true hunt, the one great game. And Lukin is _one of the_ _best_ at the game.

Although even he can get exhausted, sometimes. Sometimes he thinks his talents are wasted here. Even if General Vasily promised him a teaching position, next. Teach the little ballerina’s how to  _ play. _ Though, are they even worthy of being taught? They are not even loyal to the true cause. Not that Lukin doesn’t see the importance of compartmentalizing, of hiding his true loyalties close to his chest. It’s not safe; public opinion is stacked against them. So, of course they need to move slowly.

Ever so slow. But, he’s getting there. Proving his worth. If his work on the undead Soldier wasn’t enough proof,  _ this _ definitely will be. Vasily will be proud. He’ll make their leader proud. Or, leaders. The organization is more than a little muddled, right now. And only partly on purpose, he supposes. But Lukin isn’t bothered. The less clarity at the top, the more room for him to rise.

Still, Lukin felt he’d done what was needed here. Had thought to be out of this shithole and going places. In fact, Lukin isn’t sure what exactly more he’s to achieve here.

Lukin fiddles a little at the controls, watches as the pulled lever translates into a hiss of cold air expelled from the upright cylinder. He’s bored, and would be quite willing to just go ahead with the procedures on his own. Not like any mishaps in a defrost would damage the creature inside the tube. Not badly. Only that damn arm seems to be capable of that. And that… well. Hopefully, this time the damn thing will be fixed.

It’s almost funny, how much money and care they have to put into a creature that is, for all intent and purposes, unkillable. Like this new arm  _ the Wife — well, Yakov's wife really. But the image suits her so well —  _ has procured for it: pure gold insulation, on every point the new mechanical arm will make contact with tissue. Like this insulated cryo-stasis tube: cutting edge technologie just to keep it sedated while Lukin knows they can just stick it under a snow-hill just as well. While Lukin  _ knows  _ it would have been faster to just separate the damn failed prototype from its shoulder with a welding torch and strap it to a table as the new surgeons and scientists and engineers are flown in. But, well whatever.

No point in voicing any of that. He has to be on his best behavior here. Which sucks. Lukin is not very good at his best behavior. He’s bored, and hungry to prove himself. If only they’d let him teach the young ballerinas, he’d at least have something to turn. Such young girls are easily influenced. He could take one or two to the side. Whisper in their ears. Make them feel special. Pull them in, one after another. Turn them to his cause.

But, he can’t, can he? Because of the Wife, the old witch, watches over them like a hawk. Turning her around is a lost cause. Turning their Undead Soldier will remain impossible as long as that old bat or that half-wit husband of hers are always watching. As for that idiot that thinks they are friends...

Well, whatever he’s waiting for, Lukin will just have to be patient. Keep his eyes on the prize, whatever it is. Perhaps Vasily wants him to remove the Wife from the playing board all together? Because in all of this, she is the  _ real  _ problem. Or perhaps Vasily thinks they can control her; perhaps he’s looking for some extra angle? Work her. Have that hate and paranoia work _ for  _ them.

But if that is his mission here, why didn’t Vasily just tell him so? Besides, Angelica is just another puppet. A puppet that’s grown into the game of power; a clever puppet at that. Still, just a puppet dancing in their strings. Vasily would want to keep her, even if her beauty is finally fading. The husband, however…

And there he is now. Late as ever. Pushing inside with a little too much emphasis on an even tread. Lukin bares his teeth in a pleasant smile, easily masking his annoyance, “There you are, my friend. Are we ready to proceed?”

The old fart pauses in the doorway, a twitch of a hand, wanting to reach for his canteen again, no doubt. Yet, Yakov stops himself. “Yes, the doctors are prepping the operation theatre right now. If we start the defrost now he should be ready just in time for the anesthetist.”

'He'. Lukin keeps that pleasant expression plastered on his face. “Did you decide on a new name yet?” 

“Let’s just see if this arm works. See if he’ll settle after. Then I’ll think of one.” 

“Just your choice is it?” 

“The Wife has bigger worries.” Off to meet the head of KGB. Apparently, three of her elite class have already been killed in action. Lukin doesn’t understand the problem. Enough orphan girls to pick up, and the new batches are only likely to get better, thanks to improved insights. “She never cared for names anyway.” 

“Hah, and so she leaves these issues to you.” This part Lukin can do by heart, “your own fault for marrying an Ice-Queen.”

“Hm,” the old creature grunts, then walks forward. His eyes have finally found and locked on the thin black cylinder at the center of the room, and now that they have it appears Yakov can no longer fight the pull, reeled in like a fish on a line, to come and stare at the small window that allows a view of the creature inside.

_ And here we go again. _ Suppressing a sigh, and a very strong inclination to allow any hint of sarcasm in his tone, Lukin voices the other man’s thoughts. “Poor Boris though. Another surgery, another trial. Another period of rehabitualisation. That cannot be easy for him,” a baited breath, a moment to hang. “It must be  _ so hard _ for you to have to watch.”

The old man sighs, again reaches for the flask hidden in his pocket. Again, he seems to think better of it. Leaves it there and pulls the hand out empty, to have it hover in front of the frost-covered glass. “I wish I could rescue him. Get him out of this hell. Somewhere safe. Somewhere nice.”

_ What? Put it out to pasture, like some cow whose udders have run dry? _ The time Lukin actually has to suppress a mad giggle at the image that contrives. No; he needs to focus. Lukin can feel,  _ something _ … there’s something here to be gained. “He is such a sweet, innocent boy,” is he pushing it? Lukin feels like he’s pushing it too hard. “I am sure he would be so happy, in your family’s farm. Alas, we need him too much.”

“Because there’s only one of him. And so many places he is needed…”

Another sigh, Yakov fishing in his other pocked. Pulling out a leather glove. He drags it on, with too much force, puts the covered hand to the glass. Well versed by now, in the risks of having the padding of his palm frozen to the fost-covered glass. It drags on, that silence, and Lukin feels it build. Feels it crest, in a kind of momentous build.

“But, what if he was _ not. _ Not the only one?” 

Lukin cannot hold in the small gasp. Does the old drunkard know something? “If he was not the only one... If his work wasn’t constantly vital..,” Lukin connects the dots. He is good at leading people, but Yakov just makes it too easy. “You should have retired by now, Yakov. Dear man. And Boris, too, has done more than enough. He could go with you.”

It is quiet, too long. And Lukin decides to push, carefully. “It wouldn’t be a problem; no one would dare question you. With or without your dear ball-and-chain, you could go back to your family country house. Have it renovated. Build Boris a nice house. Maybe a yard and a shooting-range to frolic on.”

“He is not a pet,” Yakov manages with a facsimile conviction.

And Lukin dares a victorious grin, knowing Yakov will hardly even notice him, caught in that silly web he’s spun for himself. “No, but he’ll be an old dog soon, with how hard the Wife is riding him.”

Another too long pause. Whatever Yakov means to offer to Lukin, it should be big. If the old man is aware enough to know it is delicate information, it must be big.  _ Let it be big _ , Lukin needs that lucky break. “I have been thinking about the transcripts from the... from the early research you sent me.”

Lukin sucks on his lip, well aware of what research is making Yakov stumble on his words. The actual first research, shared in confidence. Because, honestly, Yakov should be considered too recently initiated for such high level clearance. And yet, it appears Lukin’s gamble will pay off. Although, honestly, he had thought the show of confidence to build trust would be the only win. He had not thought Yakov could perhaps bring actual useful information to the table.

“In the notes… I think professor Zola was aware of this. Boris, — I mean Barnes might have been his longest surviving test subject, but if you look at how their treatment progresses, you can see there’s not really anything different. In fact, if you turn it around, it becomes obvious. Zola’s test subjects died shortly after losing  _ hope. _ After losing the will to survive.”

Sometimes, with how easy it is to manipulate Yakov, it is easy to forget he is quite the expert on psychology as well. On motivational manipulation, interestingly enough. So close to what Lukin does you’d think he’d catch on. But the old man must have known a thing or two, back in the day. “What do you mean...?”

“Looking at progression, my… Sergeant Barnes was just about to die on that table. He’d obviously stopped entertaining thoughts of escape. Had ceased any struggles. This is in consistency with all the other test subjects. All the charts say he was likely to die in a day or two. Zola expressly mentions trying to taunt some will back into him, with very little effect. But then, he gets  _ rescued. _ And just walks it off. Makes a complete turn-around recovery, just because he got out of that lab.”

“So you’re saying if we still had the juices we could make more, simply by taking the trials out of the laboratory?” This would be great info, had that been the case. Sadly, some of the fools that found the Soldier after his fall decided the stuff was best spent trying to make Barnes regrow his arm. “The cube is lost, the juices all spent.”

Yakov shrugs. “Not really. It’s all still inside Boris, even if taking blood only offers us watered down versions. And Boris  _ still _ does poorly in the lab. Which isn’t odd, really, considering he  _ hates _ it here.” Yakov shakes his head, back still to Lukin as he stares and the icy standing coffin. “I think this is also why the previous attempts at artificial insemination failed.”

“Because a fetus from the artifact would be killed by a laboratory setting?” Lukin snorts. “If that’s true, wouldn’t your wife have,..?” he waggled his eyebrows, trying at delicacy, “a long time ago already...?”

“She’s barren.” a thin smile, “Imagine; at the time I’d thought that a great advantage.”

It’s an odd thought, that a good scientific setting would be less likely to yield results than nature itself. But then again, the Artifact itself is supposedly something beyond logic. Something that makes wishes come true. If he is right... If Yakov is onto something. Well, Lukin is just excited at a chance to try again. 

“She really is lucky you snapped her up,” Lukin shrugs, playing at casual, dialing in the needed temperature changes and pressure valves. “If you are right about this, Yakov.” 

If the old man is right, they can make it big. Go all the way to the top. No, _ Lukin _ can make it to the top. As for Yakov... “If you are right about this, in just over a year you can retire. With your beloved at your side.” 

Well, unless of course retirement turns out to be a bullet to the head. Which does seem more common. Not his problem, Lukin considers as he pauses at the last button. “Hail Hydra.” 

There’s just the slightest grimace as Yakov positions himself to catch the Undead Soldier when he’s released. His voice only just barely audible over the hissing of air and creaking of hinges. But despite that, he echos dutifully, “Hail Hydra.” 


	26. Withering

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's over. Why cannot her husband see that?

Bischa, on her left, snarls, hair-bun askew, brown locks in her eyes ignored. One shoulder has slipped from her leotard, hem torn, a bloodied shoulder sticking out. Three nailmarks bleeding red on near-white skin over bone. All ignored, just like her arms pinned behind her, trapped and unmovable in that man's one-hand hold. Bischa's whole being quivers with focused attention, eyes boring like lasers into the other girl.

Into Bryonya, on the right, as she lunges, like a cresting wave, moving forward impossibly. Pulling with her the two soldiers, one on each arm. They skid, step and pull back, the girl’s teeth snapping closed inches from the left girl’s nose.

Bischa is held completely immobile, effortlessly by the man behind her. She doesn’t even try and flinch, but  _ he _ pulls her back the needed inches just in time. Boris, pulling her back by her elbows— no, not Boris. Not any more. It’s  _ Sacha _ now, this new iteration of their soldier. Angelica needs to remember that. 

Sacha looks away, almost bored. No, distinctly  _ uncomfortable _ . What is wrong with him? With this iteration? Boris used to be  _ so good _ with her girls. 

But Sacha, unlike Boris, is uncomfortable in his own skin: the new metal arm hangs from his side unused. More of a nuisance than a help, like he’s afraid to even let it touch the teenage girl. Like it still hurts him, though he told her it does not. Though the doctors assure her the gold hidden under his shirt safely insulate his flesh from steel and iron.

Not that the rest of Sacha ever seems comfortable touching any of her girls. Bor— no, damn it,  _ Sacha— _ hardly ever looks at them. Though he must have paid some attention, as he was quick enough to pull the pair apart before they managed any more harm.

“Ladies!” Angelica claps her hands, trying for neutral instead of shock. Trying to at least keep the rest of class, standing still and frozen in their assigned places, arms still raised for the next plié. “This is something that cannot wait until sparring hour?”

“Apparently not,” Bryonya spits, apparently the more reasonable of the pair. “Because  _ she _ attacked me in my sleep last night.” 

Raging eyes dance, focused on the other girl— the one in Sacha’s arms, then jump away, only a moment, to linger longingly on Bori— on Sacha. Bryonya tears her gaze away, scowling at  _ Angelica, _ no less. What should be a healthy dose of respect neglected in favor if hiding this, this— something more than just rivalry. 

It’s... it’s — yes, that’s  _ jealousy. _ Angelica can recognise it well enough. Because she too is compromised. Because she is falling prey to it too easily still. But, she’s pretty sure the rage she feels right now is... is completely justified. 

_ Her _ girls. The KGB hasn’t been easy on her top class. Ada and Almy and Anya, dead somewhere across a border. Body likely buried in a ditch. Alya and Alma and Almaz lost and if their training held have offed themselves to avoid breaking under torture. Angelica mourns them, very much. But then, there’s Annick and Ashe...

When it was reported to her that the pair had gone at each other’s throats during a mission… well. When the KGB claimed they had nearly killed each other, before discipline was admonished, Angelica hadn’t believed it. But now… now, however, she is starting to see…

Oh, she is raging mad at the pair. Would have killed them herself, perhaps. If those KGB bastards hadn’t already done it. Angelica had thought her girls above such petty squabbles. And yet they had turned on eachother. Over a  _ man. _

Bad discipline, the reports say. Angelica is still not inclined to believe that. Perhaps the sheltered upbringing had ill prepared them for the world of men. Perhaps that is what causes such young girls to burn with such fire… but.

Will she really have to have them chained to their bed at night?

Oh. Oh no. And now that left one, Bischa, sharp as she is, has also caught Bryonya’s look. And she seems to find it funny. Grins widely, teeth gleaming like they’re out for blood. And she simpers and swoons now, in Boris- no, in  _ Sacha’s _ hand. And she lifts her lips in a facsimile of a smile, and turns, her neck twisting as she reaches back, with her tongue. Stretching out to the man back behind her and…

And oh. Oh.

Angelica feels a surge of anger so strong, so powerful only years of practice keep her poised. Keep her from making of herself such a fool as Bryonya is doing, snarling and lunging and enraged.

Bischa hits the floor before Angelica can recognise what’s happened, Bryonya, in the confusion, manages to pull free an arm and kick the girl. The laughing,  _ mad _ girl. Right in the face. Angelica nearly thinks, good. Nearly thinks:  _ take that, harlot. _ While the right-girl, now-on-the-floor-girl laughs louder, bloody teeth bared. 

_ She fucking licked Bor— licked Sacha’s face. _

Yet, Angelica shouldn’t. She needs to stay calm. Take no side. No matter how upset Sacha looks eyes somewhere off to the side as he stands quivering in place.

She is getting too old for this.

The anger does get to her, she supposes. “Take them to medical.” She orders the soldiers. Then, because she has let it get to her, adds. “And after, report to Lukin for reeducation.”

And that takes the wind out of Bischa’s sails. Puts the fear of God back into her. And well it should. Nobody likes Lukin. Nobody enjoys his sessions. Good.

As for the rest? “Dismissed,” she tells them, and turns away to gather herself. Breathe to calm her heart, beating painfully in her chest. Thrumming up a headache and fueling the ever-present ache in her leg. 

Just in time, as Yakov rushes in.

And Angelica heaves a heavy sigh, taking the moment between girls filling out and Yasha reaching Sacha to turn away and take another pill against the pounding headache. Then, another one from the other container. The one for her heart. Because the fucking things are ruining her further, and yet she cannot seem to even cut down.

She is too old, in too much pain to even try.

Because while she looks down on her own girls for fighting over a man. What is this? Is she jealous of her own husband as well? How pathetic. She should be happy to at least have him still at her side. Oh, how hypocritical she has become. She can stand here and tell herself her time is over. Her dancing days, her loving days through. But when Yakov holds him, both hands wrapped around his neck. A finger brushing softly over Sacha’s lips, as he whispers, adoring and lovingly and patiently, as he has never been with her.

Oh, how it burns, and she is not even sure if it is Yakov or— or Sacha that she envies.

When she’s fortified herself, Yasha has Sacha back in the corner, by the piano.

Damn, but it’s not  _ fair _ . Not to her, not to himself, and definitely not to Bo— to Sacha. She thought Yakov accepted that Sacha was not theirs. Not hers, not his? Hell, if she’s too old for him, and Yakov was too old for her when they got married, can he not see...? 

If a look in the mirror wasn’t enough — if looking at his own, wrinkled skin, the last frays of white hairs at the sides of his head weren’t enough, one look into B—  _ one  _ look into Sacha’s eyes should be enough. 

Sacha isn’t even looking Yakov’s way. Not answering, eyes somewhere off into a corner. A tension in his body that’s almost as bad as he’d held the moment before that girl had found herself on the floor. And, again, she wouldn’t really disagree.

She cannot dance, anymore. Cannot even raise herself up on her good ankle, because there too, age is catching up. And in her hips, in her fingers. It’s over. She’s ready to accept it’s over. 

She had thought Yakov had accepted it was over, when he started match-making between Sacha and her girls. Then again, Sacha doesn’t seem interested. Perhaps that has given Yakov hope? He should not have hope, not for this.

It’s over. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ik. A little short but thats how it worked out.  
> Special thanks to my beta, personaljunkdrawer!


	27. Kissing Class

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tw, minors. and opinions? well, nothing much worse than you're no doubt used to by now..?  
> special thanks to personaljunkdrrawer for beta!

He doesn’t quite manage a grab; doesn’t quite manage to hit the face, the neck, or anything else critical with a full swing. But it’s heavy, this new metal arm. It follows through: a hand in thinly-disguised metal skids over Lukin’s chest and the force of it heaves the fucker up. Sends him flying, to spills against a far wall, crumbling down with the framed chart that decorated the lab’s metal wall.

Good. Fucking weasel.

Now, to get himself out of this bloody contraption. Fucking good arm strapped tight in the armrests. Legs too. After two tries with that useless left hand, Sacha attacks the buckles with his teeth, desperate to get the fuck out of here before Lukin regains consciousness.

He jerks and grunts and pulls, till his shoulder screams. The left arm, that metal arm hurt today. Pin-pricks and burns and a pounding and pulling that... and that is fine. It’s better than the numb nothing, the cold dead weight. Because the pain helps him remember. 

Remember he needs to get out of here. 

Frustration mounts, makes him gnaw at the buckle so hard, so widely, he cuts his lower lip on the prong. Which doesn’t help, just makes the whole more slippery, blood on leather. He doesn’t care; he’ll use more force. More... he’ll tear off his one good hand if he has to. And he has to. He has to...

Sacha stalls.

Somewhere, during his struggle, the lab door had opened. A figure in the doorframe, black against the light from beyond. Features shaded, as it stands frozen. Yet Sacha recogineses the stout figure, only just bending with age, the last tufts of hair at the sides of his head sticking up like cotton horns. Light flicking from his eyes as they dance from Sacha to the crumbled figure of Lukin, down near the door, a bloody smudge running down the wall, like a long arrow pointing towards his forward-slumped head. 

Sacha makes a clumsy grabbing motion towards the old soldier. “Yakov, Yakov. Help me. Get me offa this.” then, to the arm, in a moment of weakness. Loss of focus. “Get this thing  _ off _ a me!”

That jolts Yakov from his stupor. Has him moving, mechanically forward.

When he reaches the splayed fingers, metal again stuck like rust, unresponsive to Sacha’s will, Yakov steps around gingerly. Of course, must be hard to forget, for Yakov; there’s a gun in that forearm. Hard to remember, for Sacha, really. But it shouldn’t be loaded right now. 

If it was he’d have shot Lukin. Repeatedly. 

And then two palms land on Sacha’s cheeks, and Yakov shushes him. Like one would comfort a child. Only with more kissing; on his forehead, by his ear. Petting like Sacha was a scared animal, as he promises, over and over. “I will get you out of here. I promise. Just hold out a little longer. Just a little longer.”

Sacha has the absurd impulse to rip the old man’s throat out. But, but he swallows it down. Manages, almost calmly. “Wait for what? Wait how long?” 

Yakov hugs him close, bringing Sacha’s head to his chest. The soft skin hanging loose from Yakov’s neck rubs in Sacha’s eyes. His bony chest rises against Sacha’s ear as he breathes deeply, likely nods. “Alright, alright. Yes.” then he’s unstrapping Sacha, helping him free. Fucking finally. “You do today well, and it’ll be just a few more months, you’ll see. All you gotta do is play it right today.”

And Sacha nearly groans. “Is it a mission?”

Please god, just let it be a simple mission. He can do missions. Acquire some tech, gather some info, shoot a bad-guy. He is good with missions.

“It is... like a mission.” 

And then Sacha  _ does  _ groan. “Still not cleared then? For fuck’s sake I…” 

“ _ Clear _ you?” that’s Lukin. Finally up off the floor. Limbs shaking. Pathetic loser. Sacha should have hit him harder. He’s not exactly sure why, but he’s pretty sure the guy deserves it. “You are a fucking  _ unstable menace _ . An erratic, self-centered. Violent failure of a…,” he trails off, only now realising what Yakov is doing, down on the floor. Sacha grins, teeth he knows must be bloody, and makes a fist with his good, now-freed right.

Lukin turns a delightful shade paler. “Yakov, don’t release it. I need to reconfigure before there’s  _ another _ lethal accident.” 

“Lukin, please.” Yakov, of course. “It’s okay, isn’t it Sacha?” leading Sacha, holding his hand. Pulling up out of that god-awful chair, and away. He has the right idea. 

Sacha thinks he wants to take that lousy left arm they fit him with and shove it down Lukin’s throat. But Yakov pulls him away from Lukin, away from the labs, and away from that burning rage that seems to pound within him. 

When they are back in the school’s cool halls, that silent calm washes over Sacha. Girls, deep in concentration behind closed doors. Hunched over work or silently practising steps and combative stances. Sacha would not want to disturb them, would not want to break their concentration. Learning, teaching is important.

He doesn’t know why, doesn’t remember going to school at all, but the feel of it, quiet and severe, feels familiar and important and calming. He likes it here. Though he feels sadness too, for the rage he left behind. Had to get out of there, yes. But with Lukin still there it’s a temporary escape. Because... he doesn’t remember. But as long as Lukin is there, down in that lab, as long as Sacha can be sent back...

It’s like a mission incomplete, that’s what it is.

Then, without warning, Yakov drops his good right hand and turns to him, puts one hand behind Sacha’s neck and looks up at him pleadingly. “Sacha, Sacha. This is important. It took a long time for me to set this up. A long time to get the Wife to agree.”

The Wife, Yakov’s wife. The Lady Angelica. At odds over this, with her husband, with Yakov. Sacha has memories of the pair presenting a solid front. Sacha has memories of Yakov, strong and middle-aged. Memories of the pair of them being nearly the same height. He also has a memory of enjoying the man’s hands on his skin.

These are not memories that strike him as his own.

It’s the distortion more than anything that makes him feel sick. Off-balance and queasy and confused. But the man’s breath doesn’t help. Smelling his breakfast and the little liquor he must have had on the side do not help. So, Sacha turns his head to the side, and is treated to a sight that only feeds more bile up his throat.

There’s a pair of girls kissing, inside that class he stands in front of. He can see them through the door’s glass. Their hands in each other’s hair. Their fine, delicate faces mushed together as the boisterously tonguing each other. The other girls, staring, the Wife, miss Karpov, giving instructions approvingly.

And perhaps he shouldn't mind. Perhaps they are learning, perhaps they are doing as instructed. But, it feels so wrong. Especially as this is the same pair as he pulled apart the other day. Bischa and Bryonya. Perhaps their vigor can be mistaken for enthusiasm. But, Sacha knows how mean they play. Can see Bryonya pull the other’s hair too hard. Can tell Bischa is trying to suffocate her partner, blocking her airways completely.

And the class, captivated, silently spurs them on.

“How about that brunette. Bica? The pretty one. She likes you.”

Did he zone out? Likely. That happens. Happens a lot, because half the time he doesn’t know how he got where he is, what he’s doing and why. Why he’d want to, most of all. And that seems an important thing? That seems like something he should have, the why of where he is. What he wants. 

He got out of the lab, but he’s not escaped yet. “Bischa.” Sacha grunts. She likes him alright. And Sacha would  _ like _ to pretend he likes everyone back. But Bischa is mean, and he can’t say he likes that. And so,  _ what about her? _

The others clapping, now. The other girls, their classmates. Off their chairs as the pair flails at each other. Ms Angelica, her stick in the air, as the pair finally breaks apart. Leering at the other, all nasty provocation. Bischa licks her lips for good measure, to the catcalls of her fellow peers. 

And oh,  _ what about her, _ indeed. Oh. Oh god no. Sacha may not remember what he wants, but he knows what he  _ doesn’t _ want _. _ “She is  _ fifteen. _ ”

Yakov raises an eyebrow and turns to regard him pointedly, silently asking  _ ‘do they seem so innocent and young to you, really?’ _ And yet, it is wrong. They are too mean, too mature. Too openly brazen. It’s all an act. It has to be an act.

“Huh. Well, how about that tall one. With the tits?”

Sacha would like to pretend he doesn’t know which one Yakov means. “Bodana? _ She is also fifteen. _ ”  _ They are all fifteen, _ he doesn’t say.  _ It’s a year-class, _ he doesn’t say.

“Really?” Yakov actually appears surprised. “Well, fifteen is not that young. My mother was only sixteen when she married. And besides, you are still, well. Look at you. You are young as well.”

And yet Yakov waited till the end of thirty to marry, himself. And where that tidbit of useless information comes from he, again, does not ask. But.  _ How young, _ he needs to know. “I am?” he finally manages. “How  _ old  _ am I?”

“Well,” Yakov shrugs, stepping away to finally release him. Gesturing and looking. “Don’t look a day over twenty, twenty-five at most, do you?”

Tagging the question on at the end, like Yakov isn’t really sure either. But if Yakov isn’t, _ how should Sacha be? _ Also, he cannot help but feel Yakov is _ lying _ . Is distorting the truth. It angers him. 

“Find someone else,” Sacha gestures. Throws out his good hand and turns. Caught by the bad shoulder half-way through. Only reaction-speeds and stretching-thin control stop him from hitting the man attempting to pull him back. Letting the feeble hand on him turn him back around.

“Sacha, Sacha! We talked about this, remember?” Yakov, again reaching up for him. While Sacha does not remember. Or maybe he does, and doesn’t want to. There is an uncanny grey area in his mind, that he both longs to plunge into and fears stepping too close to. The sensation leaves him adrift, the only buyo to grab Yakov’s raspy voice. “Any Soldier would be happy to take your place.  _ Lukin _ himself would be happy to take your place.”

“Then let them,” maybe those men can stomach seducing children. He cannot. Feels sick from just watching them compete over him, like  _ he _ ’s a prize. Like  _ that _ is a prize they’d want. When they shouldn’t, not for years yet. Though saying anything of the sort will pour gasoline on their little fiery hearts. Hearts fueled and stoked by lies, dreams and childish hopes that would be dashed, he’s sure, as soon as he’d give in. 

“Except _ my wife _ would sooner get some prisoners from the Gulach. Because then she can just execute them if they take it too far. Except if you were to... take it too far..?” 

And oh, oh that’s just wrong. So wrong. And he may not understand, may be addled in the head. But he knows that on this the Wife, the Lady Angelica, would agree. Would rather neuter her girl than let them be used as adolescent broodmares. 

Sacha is past feeling sick. He is raging fire. “And, this. This is your plan? What, have the child take my place in twenty, twenty-five odd years?”

And this, Yakov seems to recognise. At this point he seems to understand how useless, how stupid, how completely disgusting… And the old man steps back, fingers falling away from Sacha’s face with a slight flinch. “Look, I’m not asking you to sleep with any yet. Just - just, see if there’s any you might like.”

There’s not much pity in Sacha, so he follows Yakov, steps forward when the old man retreats. Asks, again, letting loathing seep into his voice: “Is this really your plan, Yakov?” 

The old man stutters, reaches, but doesn’t seem to realise how pointless. How stupid. What kind of sick bastard does the man take him for anyway? Sacha moves further forward, pushing past, retreating his steps. “I’m going back to Lukin’s lab,” compared to the present company, the man might not be all that bad. In fact, it’s hard to remember now, what had made him so angry before.

“Sacha, don’t you dare. Sacha.”

Sacha throws a rude gesture, almost out of earshot when Yakov says: “Sacha, this is what you desire.”

Except he uses longing, žilánie. A word, a bullet, a trigger pulled. 

And Sacha stops. Between one footfall and the next, frozen. Stops walking, stops thinking. Nothing but empty static in his mind.  _ Stalls, _ that’s what it is. He stalls, again. Forgets the  _ why. _ Loses track of time and space and him— of  _ himself—  _ and... 

Next thing he knows he somehow finds himself kissing an uncanny amount of fifteen-year old girls, while he feels less than nothing as he does.

  
  



End file.
